Strange Fortunes
by Tehta
Summary: Gondolin is at peace, and yet several of its citizens harbour resentments, ambitions, and unnatural desires. Much will be revealed in this comedy of errors starring Maeglin, Salgant, Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Slash, theoretical het. NEW: COMPLETE
1. Treachery

**Chapter One: Treachery**

The hidden city of Gondolin dazzled the eye. Sunlight brightened its white walls, flashed reflections in the high windows of its many towers, set its golden rooftops ablaze. Down in the courtyards the fountains glittered, every spout a fall of diamonds adorned with tiny rainbows.

Maeglin found it all rather gaudy.

Gaudy, and overwhelming. As he walked through the city, the sun's inescapable rays stabbed at his eyes until he was forced to adopt a semi-permanent squint. Granted, he liked the way this made him look—deep, inscrutable, and mature­—since people had an alarming tendency to view his too-wide, dark eyes as evidence of childlike vulnerability. But what was the point of all that brightness? Even the most glorious things looked best when viewed not under the noonday sun, but in dimly lit gloom. Dwarven gems certainly did, as did gold, and that quintessential example of glory, golden hair.

Feeling a familiar, pleasant tightness in his chest, Maeglin sighed. Yes, undeniably, of all the alleged wonders of over-decorated Gondolin, none were as heartbreakingly lovely as Idril's hair on a moonless night, its soft glow easily outshining the flame of the candle in her hand. How he longed to see her in a torchlit cave or mine, perhaps clad in a bright white dress like the ones Mother used to favour...

The reverie was so engrossing that Maeglin almost walked past Ecthelion's house, noticing it only just in time to turn towards the door without losing his dignity. He mounted the steps, tossed his cloak over one shoulder, and knocked before returning to his subtle thoughts.

Oh, Idril. Cousin Idril. 'Cousin.' What a beautiful word that was. A treacherous one, too, for while it linked him to Idril it also marked her as forbidden—or so it seemed, under Gondolin's laws. But then, whom should he love, if not family? No-one else was worthy. Maeglin had no time for the nonsensical laws of an illogical people who gave their only city seven unnecessary names and then called it The City of Seven Names, which was clearly an eighth name and thus made a mockery of the whole system.

Yes, Maeglin had much to teach the Gondolindrim. It was his duty as well as his birthright; what a pity his uncle did not see it the same way. Although Turgon had welcomed Maeglin warmly enough, he still treated his nephew with the sort of condescending pride an adult might show a promising child. Fortunately, Maeglin knew exactly how to prove his maturity. Nobody could possibly consider him a child once he was married, possibly with children of his own. And he was not without resources, such as friends—no, not friends. One of his high birth could not expect true friendship. What Maeglin had was influential followers who could be manipulated into helping him achieve his goals.

Provided they could first be manipulated into opening their doors, something Ecthelion seemed in no hurry to do.

Maeglin did not mind waiting; he was not an impatient person. But making King Turgon's nephew wait was an insult to King Turgon. Since he doubted Ecthelion meant to give such offense, he knocked again.

"It is I, Maeglin!"

He might have listened at the keyhole, but such behaviour, which had been acceptable or even expected while he lived at Nan Elmoth, under his father's eyes, was less appropriate in the second-most powerful man in Gondolin. Besides, the door looked thick and soundproof. He was about to rap on it once more, louder this time, when it finally opened.

"Good day, Maeglin." Ecthelion bowed, which was proper, but he did not invite Maeglin in at once, which was less so.

"Yes, good day."

Maeglin stepped into the cool, dim hallway. Summoning his natural air of authority, he pushed past Ecthelion and headed up the stairs that led to Ecthelion's private rooms—or, rather, to his one, abnormally large, private room. Maeglin did not care for the place. While the acoustics were supposedly outstanding, the high ceiling and overabundant windows made the place feel far too much like part of the great, bright outdoors. At least the furniture was pleasantly simple, sparse, and well ordered, even if the bed did not look as carefully made as it had during his previous visits.

"Ah, Maeglin! Hello."

Glorfindel stood a few feet away from the bed, leaning against the wall with an entirely inappropriate degree of nonchalance.

"Glorfindel." Maeglin nodded in greeting. "I thought you were out of the city."

"I was. I returned only this morning."

"I see." Maeglin had to admit that Glorfindel did look like a disheveled traveler. For one, his tunic was hanging open. It seemed disrespectful of him not to have laced it up in expectation of Maeglin's visit, as he had certainly had plenty of time. Maeglin stared at him—and at the offending garment—pointedly.

Glorfindel glanced down at himself. "Ecthelion and I were just sparring," he said.

As an apology for his appearance, or even for the long wait, this comment left much to be desired. Maeglin decided to needle Glorfindel a little, in retaliation. "I suppose it is true then, what they say about you two."

Glorfindel's hands fumbled with his tunic. "What do they say?"

"That you choreograph your sparring matches in private, to make them look more impressive."

"Oh, that!" Ecthelion strode past Maeglin to stand beside Glorfindel. "Yes, I have heard that we move together too well for spontaneity, but the boring truth is that we are simply very familiar with each other. Anyway, surely anyone who knows us at all is aware that neither Glorfindel nor I would ever fight to lose?"

He sent Glorfindel a challenging look, which was returned in kind. Maeglin wondered who had been winning that interrupted sparring match. They were both impressive: well-built yet graceful, two of the finest fighters in the city. Of course, their shared tendency to call him 'Maeglin' and not 'Lord' or 'Prince' was a bit irritating, but, as Mother used to say, horses and hounds are worthless unless they show some spirit. In all, Maeglin understood why she had chosen them for her honour guard, and felt grateful to her for bequeathing to him two such potentially useful followers. Today, however, he wished to speak to only one: Ecthelion, whose half-Telerin ancestry was a match for Maeglin's own, and who might therefore be expected to see sense.

"Ecthelion, I need to meet with you. Alone."

Ecthelion arched an eyebrow. "Right now?"

"Naturally, right now." Why else would Maeglin have walked all the way across the city? That was the problem with these impressive warrior types: they were even less rational than the average citizen. In spite of Maeglin's clarification, Ecthelion and Glorfindel took a moment to exchange questioning glances before Glorfindel stepped away from the wall and gestured to a nearby table.

"The thing is, Maeglin, we are rather busy. As you know, I have just returned from the foothills, where I was surveying the prospective site of the War Games. I would very much like to discuss my findings with Ecthelion before he meets with the Plumbers' Guild."

Typical Gondolindian logic! While it was undeniable that the table was covered in maps, Glorfindel's excuse was clearly nonsense. "How urgent can this be? You were sparring," said Maeglin patiently.

"We thought we had time. My meeting is not for half an hour." Ecthelion frowned. "Will half an hour suffice, for your business? Perhaps we could make an appointment for some future date."

The constraint was not ideal, but Maeglin would not wait any longer. "It will suffice."

Ecthelion turned towards Glorfindel and gave a slight shrug.

Glorfindel nodded. "We will have to finish this later, then."

"I suppose," said Ecthelion, "that your first few days back are likely to be extremely busy?"

"Yes, it does all look rather grim. And with your rehearsals, we cannot even get a drink of an evening." Glorfindel's eyes darkened with thought, then brightened again. "Look here, how about tomorrow, before the officers' council? I was planning to spend an hour or so on a surprise inspection of the palace guard—my men are on duty­—but it has just occurred to me that I always inspect the palace guard after a trip out of the city." He grinned broadly. "The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of doing a surprise non-inspection, instead."

Ecthelion met his grin with a small but heartfelt smile. "Till tomorrow, then."

"Till tomorrow. Come by my rooms. Lucky they are so close to the palace; we can walk to the council together. Maeglin, farewell."

After watching the door click shut behind his friend, Ecthelion exhaled and rolled his shoulders as if willing his body to relax. Maeglin was aware that some strange tension had left the room.

"A close fight, was it?" he asked.

"It usually is." Ecthelion moved off towards the table. "Would you excuse me for just one more moment while I put all this away?" He bent over the maps, rolling them into a tube.

"Are those the plans for the War Games, then?" asked Maeglin. "You know, Ecthelion, there is no need to be quite so careful with them when I am around. As Turgon's close kinsman, I should be trusted with the city's secrets."

"It is not a question of trust; I find it hard to believe that one of my fellow officers would seek to ruin the Games by cheating. I am simply trying to keep the information to as few people as possible so that, if any details are revealed too soon, we will know whose carelessness is to blame. At any rate, there is nothing to see here. I hid the real secrets when we first heard you knocking." His task done, Ecthelion straightened up. "Is that what you wanted to talk about? The War Games?"

"No. I..."

How to begin? Maeglin could not mention marriage between close relatives explicitly, not until he knew that Ecthelion was a sympathetic ally, but learning his attitudes on the subject would be a delicate matter. It was most unfortunate that he had not been able to think of any other example of controversial marriage to bring up. He would just have to be vague, and hope for a lucky opening in the conversation.

"Ecthelion, we have often discussed the ways in which laws and customs differ between cultures. Here in Gondolin, among my father's people... among your Telerin relatives."

Ecthelion nodded. "It is something we are both aware of, that the underlying rules by which people live their lives are not the same everywhere. Of course, they can differ not only from culture to culture, but also from person to person. Even in this Noldorin city, there are some who habitually break—or at least ignore—the laws and customs of the Noldor." He threw a grim glance towards the bed, as if he considered the slight asymmetry of its cover unlawful. "I have come to believe that, ultimately, everyone must live their own life in accordance with their own conscience and moral judgment."

Although Ecthelion's voice was pleasant and soothing—famously so—such overly earnest hair-splitting bored Maeglin. "Oh, never mind the lecture on comparative morality. I wish to discuss the ways in which the Noldorin views on marriage differ from those of the Sindar."

"Marriage? I suppose that some Sindar might be slightly more open-minded about romance outside of marriage, but I believe that the institution itself is viewed the same way in every Elven culture I have encountered, as a union that binds a man and a woman together until the end of—"

"Of course the obvious, basic stuff is always the same! But, well... it seems to me that the Noldor constrain the choice of appropriate marriage partners more than other cultures."

"Hmm. In what way?"

This conversation was even more difficult than Maeglin had expected; he needed time to think. He moved towards a large freestanding harp and plucked at the strings, absentmindedly wondering at their metal composition.

"Maeglin." Ecthelion joined him and laid a hand on the instrument, silencing it. "While I do not want to jump to conclusions as to why you are so interested in this subject, perhaps it might help you to know that King Turgon has said his daughter is free to marry whomever she chooses. I cannot imagine it would be any different for you."

At this mention of Idril, Maeglin's chest contracted with the usual pleasurable pain. He moved away again, turning to inspect a nearby weapon rack, which held several swords, artfully arranged: Ecthelion displayed his weapons the way other people displayed flowers. This thought reminded Maeglin of his lovely cousin as she looked when fussing over a vase, her hair pouring forward like a fall of molten metal. The image heartened him and, inspired, he found the right question to ask. Yes, it would be a bit of a risk, but Ecthelion had a warrior's mind, unused to dwelling on hidden meanings, and was therefore unlikely to make the obvious connection.

"Anyone she chooses? Are you sure? What if Idril wanted to marry her own uncle?"

"Her uncle? Lord Fingon? That seems improbable." Ecthelion's eyes glittered with a private amusement.

"What is so funny?"

"Oh, have you not heard the rumours? It is only gossip, of course, and so I daresay we should pay it no mind, but your uncle is said to be... close in friendship with Maedhros Feanorion. So close that Maedhros might disapprove of any marriage he chooses to make."

Maeglin hated revealing that he did not grasp these Gondolindian jokes. "Maedhros Feanorion has no right to constrain Fingon in any way, friend or not. He is not High King: that is my grandfather's job, now. At any rate, he should be happy to see his friend wed someone suitable. Which brings me back to the question of—"

"You are right, of course. He has no real hold over his friend." Ecthelion's voice now sounded crisp instead of thoughtful. "But why all these concerns? Has Idril developed a sudden passion for her valiant uncle? Or are you speaking of yourself? If I recall correctly, your own father had no sisters."

Maeglin felt a surge of panic. While he was almost certain Ecthelion's comments were meant in jest, they were hitting uncomfortably close to his secret. He turned his face away, towards the weapon rack—and, miraculously, found just the distraction he needed.

"Did you know that there is something stuck behind this rack?"

"Excuse me?"

"A crumpled garment of some sort, it looks like."

Maeglin reached over and pulled it out. Intrigued by this find, so incongruous in Ecthelion's neat room, he draped it over one arm and shook out the folds. It was a formal robe of heavy velvet, dark grey braided with silver. No, not just silver: there was some gold embroidery there, too, near the collar. Typical, tasteless Noldorin excess. Maeglin scowled and picked at the thread.

It came away in his fingers.

Brightness flashed before his eyes like a lightning bolt headed straight for his heart. Treachery! He turned towards Ecthelion and held up his right hand.

"What is this?"

Ecthelion stared. For a moment, his normally composed expression revealed shock and even guilt, feeding Maeglin's darkest suspicions. Then he blinked and reached forward, his face immobile as a carved mask. "A hair," he said.

Maeglin jerked the hair away before Ecthelion's fingers could profane it with their touch. "And whose hair is it?"

"Obviously Glorfindel's. He must have lost it during one of our sparring sessions."

Treachery and lies! Ecthelion's pallor and flat tone of voice had made his deceit plain. But even if he was not a skillful liar, he was a surprisingly quick thinker, for his story almost made sense. Almost, but not quite.

"Sparring in your formal clothes?" asked Maeglin.

"Well, no. Clearly not. Judging by the location of this robe, I suppose I must have removed it and given it to Glorfindel, who naturally shoved it behind the nearest piece of furniture." Ecthelion was warming up to his lies: he smiled, a little ruefully. "Now, I admit that such an action would make no sense to you or me, but Glorfindel—"

"None of it makes sense!" Maeglin raised his voice, feeling the weight of logic gather behind his words. "How on Arda did his hair get onto your robe while you were sparring if you took your robe off to spar? Do not tell me it just drifted there during your bout—there are several other hairs here, right on the shoulder, trapped in the embroidery."

"You are right. I suppose—"

"Let me guess. You are going to tell me that Glorfindel just happened to lay his head on your shoulder before you disrobed. Perhaps it is a little habit of his?"

The sarcasm worked: Ecthelion was struck speechless. "No, I most certainly am not going to tell you anything of the sort," he said at last.

"Well, then?" Maeglin thrust the robe in Ecthelion's general direction.

"Well, then... What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"Stop playing games. This hair is obviously Idril's."

"Idril's?" As he said the name, sounding it out like a melody, Ecthelion's face unfroze. Presented with this evidence of affection, Maeglin fought down nausea as Ecthelion continued. "I see. I suppose it is possible, yes. After all, I might have danced with her the last time I wore this. Now when—"

"Danced with her?"

"Yes. Why, what were you implying?"

This calm question gave Maeglin some hope. After all, Idril was wise and pure of heart; perhaps Ecthelion's admiration of her was perfectly innocent. Maeglin met his gaze, hoping to find it clear and honest. But Ecthelion's eyes were guarded, the eyes of one with something to hide. Maeglin remembered the earlier flicker of guilt, and reluctantly decided that his suspicions had to be correct. They were certainly logical, in that they explained why Idril could not see that Maeglin was her destiny, as she was his: she was investigating other, lesser alternatives. And, as far as lesser men went, Ecthelion was one of the better options. He had power: though most of his supporters were Telerin nobodies, they were numerous. He was talented, too, both as a warrior and as a singer­—two professions women seemed to find particularly appealing. Mother, for one, had considered him attractive enough, if a little dull. True, he was boringly dark, but not everyone preferred blondes.

Ecthelion must have read Maeglin's silence as capitulation. "A few hairs do not prove anything," he said.

"Ah, but it all fits so well. It explains why you are not like most of the other bachelors in the guard: why you have this vaguely satisfied air, even though I have never seen you pursue a woman. And then there are your own words about Idril, spoken just minutes ago. The way you emphasized her freedom of choice and the low likelihood of a marriage to Fingon—"

"Who is... well, her uncle."

And thus, the question Maeglin had wished to ask was answered. He hated Ecthelion then, not just for the betrayal, but also for being just as close-minded as the others, and it pained him to think that he had ever viewed such a person as a potential friend. "Yes, her uncle! So what? At least he is a man of high birth. As for you—who are your ancestors? Common troubadours and designers of fountains! I doubt you would even have a lordship if you were not so competent and so popular with all the little peasants. And now you seek to climb even higher—is there no end to your ambition? She is your High King's granddaughter! She is so far above—"

"Maeglin." Ecthelion's commanding tone made Maeglin think of his parents. "While I am very flattered by your positive opinion of my abilities, I would like to ask you to refrain from shouting at me in my own home."

Treachery, lies—and now insolence! Maeglin wanted to slap the arrogant upstart, but he was aware that, no matter how high he drew himself up, Ecthelion was taller. He consoled himself with the thought that the contest for Idril's hand would not be won with brute strength, but with wits, and there he was clearly superior.

"I promise you this: you will not wed her," he said.

"Fair enough. Coincidentally, I can promise you the same thing."

Ecthelion smiled, as if his words had been an attempt at reconciliation, and not a challenge. With a great effort of will, Maeglin refrained from throwing the vile garment in his face. Instead, he let it fall to the ground, but not before picking out all the precious hairs.

"I shall keep these. As evidence," he added quickly.

He turned on his heel and strode out, remembering to slam both the upstairs and the downstairs doors.

———

By the time he had reached the palace, Maeglin felt much calmer. He sought out a favourite dark nook beside an iron portcullis and examined his left hand. Wound around a finger, the golden hairs looked like a promise-band. Well, he had made a promise to Ecthelion; now he repeated it, speaking to the hairs as if addressing his dear cousin.

"He will not have you. He does not deserve you, and I will make you see it."

So what if Ecthelion was well respected? He had to have vices. Everyone did; well, everyone except Idril. Whatever Ecthelion's hidden faults were, Maeglin would find them.

Beyond the palace windows, Gondolin still glittered like an enormous, vulgar suncatcher, but this time Maeglin did not mind the brightness. It seemed like a good omen for one seeking to expose deep-hidden secrets.

———

—

———

Author's Notes:

0. To those who do not know me (and those who do, too): I love constructive criticism. Actually, I love all feedback, but I am particularly interested in comments that will help me improve the story and my writing in general. They don't even have to be all that constructive. A question like, "What was going on with Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and whose hair was that, anyway?" would be most welcome, too. Puzzling, but welcome.

1. The title is a roundabout reference to Tolkien's essay on the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, where we are told that

"Marriage, save for rare ill chances or strange fates, was the natural course of life for all the Eldar. ... their time of generation was in their youth or earlier life, unless strange and hard fates befell them."

2. Yes, Gondolin sure had a lot of names.

"Tis said and 'tis sung: 'Gondobar am I called and Gondothlibar, City of Stone and City of Dwellers in Stone; Gondolin the Stone of Song and Gwarestrin am I named, Tower of Guard, Gar Thurion or the Secret Place, for I am hidden from the eyes of Melko; but they who love me most greatly call me Loth, for like a flower am I, even Lothengriol the flower that blooms on the plain.'"

This is why it was also called 'The City of Seven Names'. In addition we have 'Loth-a-ladwen', the Lily of the Plain. And that's all just Sindarin; it was Ondolinde in Quenya. I am sure that Morgoth had a few choice names for it, too.

3. A Gondolinnel is one of the Gondolindrim.

4. When the Elves first awoke, there were three Elven kindred or races: the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri. The Silmarillion deals mostly with the Noldor, who seem to have had a real adventurous streak. All the assorted wood-elves (e.g., Maeglin's father) are descendants of the Teleri. The Vanyar are living back in Valinor. In "The Fall of Gondolin", Ecthelion of the Fountain(s) is described as a Noldo. However, given that the Teleri were famed for being the finest singers, and fond of water besides, I feel that making him part Telerin is reasonably consistent with the canon. Many prominent Noldor were of mixed ancestry: for example, Turgon was part Vanyarin, and had a Vanyarin wife. (For the purposes of this fic, I have decided that Glorfindel was related to her. Well, he is blond.)

5. Regarding the whole "wedding customs differ" conversation. While the Silmarillion does say that

"Maeglin was moved the beauty of Idril and desired her, without hope. The Eldar wedded not with kin so near, nor ever before had any desired to do so."

in the essay on Laws and Customs of the Eldar we read that

"'First cousins', as we should say, might marry, but seldom did so, or desired to do so, unless one of the parents of each were far-sundered in kin."

This is why Maeglin's theory that the Noldor (or at least the Gondolindrim) are stricter than other Elves sounds somewhat reasonable to me.


	2. Under the Table

**Chapter Two: Under the Table**

The invitation, if it could be called such, seemed simple enough.

_To Salgant, Lord of the House of the Harp,_

_Call on me in my private forge._

_Maeglin Lomion Eolion, Lord of the House of the Mole, Grandson of Fingolfin High King of the Noldor, Chief Smith of the City of Many Names, etc., etc._

Perhaps it was even a little too simple: it failed to mention the time of the meeting or its purpose. Salgant placed the note above his plate, where he could continue to eye it warily as he helped himself to another kipper.

Could this be about 'The Mole in His Hole'? He had known the song was a mistake even as the first, half-formed verse left his lips, but several of his guests had found it so gratifyingly amusing that he had not had the heart to stop. Fortunately, it seemed unlikely that anyone would have dared to share the joke with Maeglin, and inconceivable that Maeglin would have reacted so coolly, especially considering what the song had implied about his mother.

The invitation might be a gesture of goodwill, then: an indication that the hard work Salgant put into pleasing Maeglin—the elaborate flattery, the bowing and scraping—was paying off. That would be most welcome news, not only because Maeglin would some day be almost as important as that elaborate signature implied, but because Salgant almost enjoyed the boy's company. Being around someone so blessed by fortune, and yet so troubled, took Salgant's mind off his own shortcomings, while the awareness that his fawning cheered Maeglin made him feel useful.

One thing was certain: no matter what the note's purpose, it would have to be obeyed, and soon, for Maeglin hated to be kept waiting. Salgant resolved to pay his visit right after breakfast.

———

The Gondolindian smiths, who preferred to do their fine work in well-lit environments, had been happy enough to cede the gloomiest of their forges to the young Prince. Maeglin had darkened the place further by painting over several of the windows, and rearranged the fittings to match his father's supposedly more efficient system. Salgant usually found this attempt to recreate a childhood home either amusing or touching, depending on his mood.

Today, he found it a little disturbing. The room he entered seemed pitch-black at first, with Maeglin's wan face as the only spot of brightness. As Salgant's eyes adjusted, he spotted another: a glint of gold atop the workbench over which Maeglin was bent, tools in hand. But before Salgant could examine the golden object further, Maeglin pushed it aside and stepped out from behind the bench, his long dark cloak billowing behind him like a living shadow. Salgant, who could not wear such dramatic, flowing clothes without looking dumpy, concealed his jealous sigh by bowing low to the floor.

"Good morning, my Prince. I am honoured by your invitation," he said. "Indeed, it is a most fortunate coincidence, as I was just composing a song that might be of interest to you, an ode in which I praise the twilight to the skies by comparing it to your lovely mother."

"Yes, Mother was lovely, was she not?" Maeglin's tone implied both agreement and dissatisfaction with Salgant's tribute. "But I am not interested in your ode. She always said your serious compositions were slight and tedious, and I agree. I might, however, be convinced to listen to your lighter pieces, such as your satires on Ecthelion."

Though the criticism cut Salgant deeply, that last comment salved the wound. Mocking Ecthelion was always pleasant; it felt like compensation for the unfair profusion of talents, musical and otherwise, that his rival had received at birth. And yet Maeglin's request sounded too good to be true.

"Why Ecthelion?" Salgant asked. "I thought you two were quite friendly."

"Friendly? Perhaps. He certainly feigned friendship well enough. At least until I discovered his treasonous plot to marry my cousin."

"Your cousin, my Prince? Lady Idril? But—" The thought of the audiences Ecthelion would be able to draw as the consort of King Turgon's only daughter made Salgant queasy. And yet Maeglin's announcement was not implausible; Ecthelion certainly possessed enough arrogance to pursue such a highborn maiden. "But that is appalling, truly appalling. I take it she is willing? What a pity that your honoured uncle has always said his daughter is free to marry whomever she chooses."

Maeglin's eyes smoldered like coals. Though they lacked the light of the Trees, their deep glow seemed to burn painful holes in Salgant's very soul. Salgant hastened to compensate for his blunder, tripping over his words.

"Please forgive me, my Prince. My mind is not as sharp and quick as yours. I know that this must not be allowed to happen. And if you believe that my satires will help to discredit him in her eyes, or the King's, then I—"

"Do not be foolish. I believe nothing of the sort. You have been trying to slander Ecthelion for years, and, in all that time, the best thing you have come up with is that he has the emotional capacity of a block of wood. Which is not sufficient for our purposes, since Idril clearly—" Maeglin glanced towards his workbench and blinked a few times, like a brave child trying not to cry over a grazed knee. Then his face hardened. "But her feelings are irrelevant; we must put an end to this nonsense, for her own good. Perhaps if you tell me what you have learnt about Ecthelion over the centuries I will be able to discern some helpful detail you have missed."

This was a great opportunity, a chance for Salgant to prove himself more useful than any of Gondolin's more beloved lords, for surely none of them had studied his rival as closely as he.

"My Prince, I will be delighted to tell you all I know. First, there are his so-called virtues: courage, diligence, self-restraint where expensive jewelry is concerned. But these are all public knowledge, the very bricks that he has used to build his cast-iron reputation. Then there is his interest in the art of war, which appears rather excessive given how secure we are here under your uncle's leadership, and—"

"Yes, yes, yes. Surface details, all. We must dig deeper." Maeglin paced up and down the room, his shadowy cloak trailing faithfully behind. "Given how well he has disguised his political ambitions and... marriage plans, it seems plausible that he may be concealing much more beneath that false mask of his. Perhaps he routinely steals money or supplies from the Guard, or kicks his dog when he is angry. I know Idril hates that."

"He does not have a dog."

"You know what I mean! Have you even tried any means of investigation beyond listening to common gossip?"

"Why, naturally, my Prince. I have made many attempts to coax information out of those who know him best, but this has proven difficult. You see, he keeps his followers on a very tight leash. My agents have been cursed and threatened with kinbeatings for making leading statements that were only very broadly derogatory. Even I myself was gravely insulted: a certain Captain Elemmakil informed me where I should put my harp."

"Where?"

Had Maeglin's unconventional upbringing not included any instruction in low humour? "Er, in a place untouched by Anar's rays," said Salgant.

"What, in a forest like my father's?" asked Maeglin. "These anti-Sindarin jokes are as unfunny as they are offensive."

Salgant gave up. "Yes, my Prince. They are indeed. At any rate, I have also instructed my agents to listen in on his conversations. Now, this is surprisingly easy, as he prefers to meet people in relatively public places: in courtyards, restaurants, and the like. However, the topics he picks tend to be legitimate to the point of boredom."

Maeglin stopped pacing and squinted. "That sounds exactly like the behaviour of a man determined to remain above suspicion, does it not? I wonder... does he ever let his guard down—while drunk, perhaps?"

"He gets drunk seldom, every five years or so, and remains dull even then. All he seems to do is sing. Not that historical, epic stuff he is so very fond of, but sentimental drivel about the warrior bonds that exist between brothers-in-arms. Facing death together, that sort of thing. The men appear to enjoy it; they often join in. Indeed, I sometimes suspect him of faking drunkenness in an attempt to recruit warriors for those insane, unnecessary training programs he sets up with Glorfindel." Salgant shuddered at the memory of that detested clear voice, cutting through the guards' alcoholic haze, inspiring them to get up at cockcrow. "The main problem with my theory is that Glorfindel, instead of encouraging him, seems to be in a great hurry to walk him home."

"Ah yes. Glorfindel." Maeglin readjusted his cloak clasp. "He is a kinsman of Idril's, you know. I would not be surprised if he was the one who had somehow arranged matters between her and his close friend, to further his own ambitions."

It made sense: to court discreetly, Ecthelion and Idril would need a go-between. "You are wise, my Prince," said Salgant. "I have long felt that Ecthelion and Glorfindel hold private conference a little more frequently than their work calls for. If they meet out of innocent friendship, why not go to an inn?"

"We might be able to find out." Maeglin sent Salgant a subtle look. "I happen to know that they will be meeting at Glorfindel's house tomorrow, just prior to the Council. Ostensibly to discuss the War Games, but who knows."

"Would that we could spy on them there! Unfortunately, my Prince, Glorfindel's house is a private residence."

"So?"

"Well, I do not know how it is among your father's people, but in this city people tend to lock their doors." Salgant chose his words with care; explaining things to Maeglin always felt a bit risky. "I suppose they distrust their neighbours—a sad commentary on the state of Arda marred. If that were not the case, I would have searched Ecthelion's belongings for incriminating evidence long ago."

"And it is mere locks that have held you back? Contrary to what you believe, my father knew more about locks than any Gondolindian locksmith."

"I am sure he did, my—"

"There was a game we often played together." To Salgant's relief, Maeglin did not look angry. Instead, a faint, nostalgic smile played over his lips. "It involved locks. You see, Father enjoyed locking things up—my toys, books, sometimes even me. My role in the game was to figure out how to open the locks without breaking them. As I grew older, and better at this craft, the mechanisms he used increased in complexity. I ended up winning the whole game in the end, of course—he never expected me to open his sword case." Maeglin reached down to caress the hilt of his weapon. "At any rate, I believe I can say that the locks of Gondolin are child's play to me. Quite literally. In fact, most can be opened with just a few skeleton keys."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes." Maeglin's dreamy expression cleared, and his sword hand slid along his belt and closed around a dark metal object. "But I do believe it is time I was going. Goodbye, Salgant. Do lock up behind yourself." With a dramatic sweep of his cloak, he strode towards the exit, pausing only to toss the dark object in Salgant's direction.

Although Salgant threw up an arm to protect his face and tried to duck, the thing still hit him on the wrist before falling to the ground with a loud jangle. He sought it out while bowed in farewell; it was a key ring holding a wide selection of generic-looking keys.

Even if Salgant could not catch a flying object, he could certainly catch a hint. After locking the door, he pocketed the key ring.

———

Salgant spent the rest of the morning alternating between testing the keys on every lock in his house—they worked perfectly—and fretting over the task Maeglin had set him. A large helping of pudding helped to calm his nerves, as did the thought that sneaking into a house to spy on two excessively muscled warriors was not all that different from sneaking up on them to subject them to a practical joke, and nowhere as terrifying as facing them in combat. He hoped that the one would not lead to the other—but surely hitting poor, pathetic Salgant, whose only wish was to entertain people, would prove below any true warrior's dignity.

To be on the safe side, Salgant waited until Glorfindel was at lunch, and until the street outside his house was clear, before approaching his door. Maeglin's keys worked their magic again. Salgant stepped into an apartment much like his own, but where the musical instruments and crystal bowls of candied fruit had been replaced with sharp metal objects and jars of sword grease.

At first, the wrongness of the situation disturbed him, but after a few moments he began to feel a perverse little thrill. There was something delightful about being free to rifle through someone else's clutter, through the piles of books and crumpled clothing that spoke of a lived-in house. It was rather like the pleasure one got out of reading a secret journal. Salgant even looked for one among the books, but the only interesting things he found there were some sheets of music written out in Ecthelion's neat hand—which he pocketed in case they contained some hidden message—and a sketchpad filled with drawings of duels, wrestling matches, and other athletic pursuits, followed by a series of anatomical studies. Bored, he tossed the pad away and sought out the washroom, where he sniffed at the bottles of haircare products, to his disappointment failing to detect the scent of bleach.

When he stepped back out into the main room, planning to have another go at the mess of papers on Glorfindel's desk, he heard a familiar creak: the downstairs door had just been opened. He found himself scrambling under a nearby table, seemingly without any prompting from his panicked mind.

His hiding place resembled the inside of a very small army tent: the light filtering in through the yellow tablecloth was much like the dawn that had woken him far too rudely on every campaign, and the rubbish already present under the table—an odd leather glove, an oily sword rag, a few crumpled bits of parchment—resembled the usual military detritus. He shuddered with disgust and turned his attention to a small chink between the tablecloth and the wall. If he pressed his face against the plaster he could see the door and, presently, a brief glimpse of Glorfindel as he stepped into the room. He could follow Glorfindel's further progress by lying down flat and tracking his boots, which were of a warm, brownish shade that reminded Salgant of caramels.

Glorfindel spent a few moments moving around the far reaches of the room, all the while whistling a well-known happy tune­—and annoying Salgant greatly by carelessly slurring the more elaborate phrases. Then the boots drew closer; annoyance gave way to apprehension, and then to panic, as the tablecloth twitched aside. Fortunately, Glorfindel did not even glance under the table as he tossed in some more papers, a heap of clothing, and a basket holding a half-eaten chicken. After edging away from the dirty laundry, Salgant examined the bird and found it warm still; Glorfindel must have cut his lunch short to prepare for his scheming session. It looked like a tasty meal, too, but Salgant did not have time to confirm this theory, for a rhythmic, precise knock forced him to return to his door-watching position.

A few moments passed—enough to make him worry that something was amiss—before Glorfindel flashed by again. Ecthelion followed and paused on the threshold, head tilted to one side. His stance seemed oddly relaxed, and his eyes blazed with life; this was not the wooden Ecthelion of Salgant's songs.

"I thought we should look at the maps first." Glorfindel sounded remote. Sure enough, he was by the far wall, kneeling before a large chest as if he were retrieving something. "Just in case we get interrupted again."

Ecthelion smiled in an artless way that nevertheless suggested complicity. "Good idea, although I doubt Maeglin will be seeking me out anytime soon."

"Why not? And what did Finwe's Great-Grandchild want yesterday, anyway?

"He never quite said. He asked me some odd questions, and then..." Ecthelion raised an eyebrow, a trick Salgant had never been able to master. "Well, I think I have a good idea of what is troubling him, but as it is both unconfirmed and personal I would prefer to discuss it with him before sharing my theories with you."

"Is it about his mother? Just joking; I do understand." Glorfindel walked up to the table and threw something down right above Salgant's head. "Poor Maeglin. I wish I liked him better."

"I like him well enough. But why so many maps?" Ecthelion stepped inside the room, out of Salgant's sight. Luckily, his boots were different from Glorfindel's: dark, almost black. They came to a stop close beside the caramel-coloured ones. "Oh, I see you have already drawn up some possible scenarios."

"Yes, I prepared them last night, to save time." Glorfindel spoke over a rustle of paper. "I suggest we place the prize-flag in this copse. The surrounding terrain is varied and should make for an interesting contest."

"It does look like a reasonable spot, as far as that goes, but will there be enough fair starting locations for all the teams?"

"I think so. Look here..."

There followed a lengthy discussion of 'approach routes' and 'cover' and 'concealment.' Now that he knew the secret conversation would take place afterwards, Salgant found it all profoundly uninteresting; it reminded him of those stupid childhood games of Elves and Orcs where he had usually ended up playing an Orc—in part because Glorfindel, one of the more common team leaders, would often good-naturedly agree to take the Orcish side, and would then equally good-naturedly choose Salgant for his team to spare him the humiliation of being picked last. Salgant wondered whether anyone could fail to realize that such obvious condescension would spark resentment.

"Glorfindel." Ecthelion's voice was strangely abrupt; Salgant realized that he had heard nothing for some time. The two pairs of boots were closer now, arranged as if Glorfindel were looking over Ecthelion's shoulder. "Glorfindel, please. I am trying to concentrate. Dealing with the War Games first was your idea—and a good idea, besides."

"Ah, but we are almost finished. I am just trying to be efficient. Anyway, looking at all these maps reminds me of all the nights I spent sleeping on the rocky ground of the foothills. A lot like your bed, that rocky ground."

Salgant recalled that Ecthelion had, in a typical fit of show-off virtue, laid claim to one of the lumpy beds that had been used in the barracks while the city was being built, before their drain on morale was noted. So, in all, Glorfindel's comment seemed accurate, if a little irrelevant.

"Nobody is asking you to sleep in my bed." Ecthelion spoke very quietly; perhaps that is why his words sounded so odd, as if the emphasis had been placed on 'sleep' and not on 'you.'

"Of course not. Eru forbid. Virtuous, unmarried warriors like us must sleep alone." Glorfindel sighed. "But never mind that. If you honestly believe that replacing your bed with a wider one, perhaps with a useful slatted headboard, would give rise to suspicion, then it is high time the old one met with a little accident."

"What sort of accident? My bed is perfectly sturdy."

"I know. I thought I could shatter a couple of the legs with that new flail of yours, while sparring."

"Mmm. But surely such a clumsy act, when performed by a fine warrior like Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, would seem suspicious as well?"

"I suppose you are right." Glorfindel sounded vexed. Such an intense interest in a friend's bed puzzled Salgant until he remembered the theory that Glorfindel was the mind behind the Ecthelion-Idril marriage. Meanwhile, Glorfindel continued. "But returning to the War Games: do you have any more comments?"

"No, I think we should adopt this arrangement."

"All done, then." Glorfindel's pleased announcement was followed by faint rustling sounds suggesting that the maps were being rolled up.

"Now, this old scroll… What is it doing here?" Ecthelion asked. "It looks like a collection of... wresting poses."

"Ah, that! It is a Vanyarin work I found in the Marital Health section of the Healers' library. I wanted to show it to you."

Salgant could remember looking at similar scrolls in his youth; some of the positions shown did look a lot like wrestling moves. It amused him that Glorfindel had only just discovered the scrolls' existence—and that his first impulse had been to share them with uptight Ecthelion, who was surely the last man in the Guard to appreciate them, Idril or no Idril.

Ecthelion seemed to agree. "Why to me, of all people? I mean... look at all these women!"

"Well, I thought it was interesting. Several of these diagrams show positions we have never—"

"In my case, all of them. Are you saying that you—"

"Oh, come on, Ecthelion, do not be so literal. The basic principle is the same. In many cases, only a very small adjustment is needed. Look here, at 'The Congress of the Spider.' Or at 'The Stallion in Springtime.'"

"'The Stallion in—' 'Climbing Telperion?' 'The Mingling of the Lights?' Who made up these descriptions, Salgant?"

Salgant had, in fact, always loved those poetic names, but he felt too confused to take offence; it appeared that Glorfindel was not offering love advice after all, but planning to convert sexual positions into wrestling moves. Even Ecthelion sounded skeptical when he continued.

"And this one, 'The Ripe Fruit of Laurelin': look, it involves a tree! Doesn't that seem a trifle unnatural to you?"

"Well, actually, the tree is very useful, there. If you would look at 'Climbing Telperion'... See, that one is stable only because the woman is so much smaller. It does not work as well for two people of equivalent size."

"No."

"Well, the tree branch she hangs from in 'The Ripe Fruit' helps with the balance. Forget about the woman and just imagine how it might work for us. Does it not seem appealingly athletic?"

Salgant could not have answered that question, as he was trying not to imagine anything. The bizarre subject matter, with its disturbing implications, was bad enough, but much worse was the way in which Glorfindel's voice grew muffled from time to time, as if he were speaking with his mouth full.

"Yes, well," said Ecthelion after a short silence, "the chances of us ever finding a discreet tree branch are slim."

"There are plenty in the foothills. We might— No, wait! What about the pull-up bar in your room? We should try that. It might even prove more comfortable than using your bed."

"Will you stop bringing that up?" Ecthelion's boots turned around so that they were facing Glorfindel's. "I am sure the makers of this scroll had very comfortable beds in which they spent days and nights on end together, and look how they ended up: so bored they had to invent new sexual acts with ridiculous names."

"One does not need to be bored to seek new experiences. Some of the Vanyar believe that attempting complicated positions with deliberate concentration will help them discover the true pleasure of the bodily union."

"Do the Vanyar truly find it so difficult? I suppose that explains why they are the smallest of the Three Kindred, if they need to hang from a tree branch just to—"

"Be careful. Those are my ancestors you are insulting."

"On the contrary, I am very impressed by your Vanyarin ancestors. They married into the Noldor, did they not? Clearly a smart move."

"Well, I would appear to have inherited their good taste in such matters." Glorfindel sounded particularly muffled. The two pairs of boots had moved closer together until they were hopelessly mixed up. "But not the difficulties you suspect them of."

"Yes," said Ecthelion in a very distracted manner, "I see that. Good point."

Soon afterwards, the whole situation deteriorated altogether. Salgant tried to ignore the garments dropping to the ground, and concentrated on imagining that the sounds he was hearing were not the consequence of anything unspeakable, but of an ordinary wrestling match. This worked for the fast, irregular breathing and the groaning, but the occasional moan broke the illusion. Skilled wrestlers did not moan like that.

"This scroll of yours..." Ecthelion's famous voice was hoarse, but Salgant was too traumatized to feel happy about it. "Does it say anything about tables?"

"Nothing novel."

"Well, then..."

The table creaked as a substantial weight was placed upon it. Now Salgant wanted to moan himself. It was easy to laugh at this sort of thing when it was purely theoretical, but now that it was going on a few feet above his head he felt nauseous rather than amused. He put his fingers in his ears, but even so he could see that the table was swaying. Then something landed on a nearby pile of clothing: one of the sword-grease jars, now lidless. In horror, Salgant watched it wobble a bit, and then roll lazily down the pile and under the table, coming to rest by one of his feet.

Ecthelion made an exasperated noise. "One moment," he said.

Afraid to kick the jar in case it rolled in some unfortunate direction, Salgant glanced around while his heart beat out a syncopated tattoo. Could he conceal himself under Glorfindel's dirty laundry? He would certainly do his best.

"No, Ecthelion, leave it. It was almost empty anyway. Come, there is another one by my bed."

"Your bed? Why so unimaginative? After all the fuss with that scroll, you—"

Salgant did not want to think about why Ecthelion might have stopped speaking so abruptly. Meanwhile, the awful sounds resumed as the two deviants stumbled away and out of sight.

Left alone, Salgant took several deep breaths and forced himself to evaluate the situation: he was locked in an apartment containing a variety of sharp implements and two highly trained warriors who would undoubtedly be enraged by his intrusion. He waited until the noises became more rhythmical. Based on what he knew about such matters, he estimated that he had about three minutes in which to make his escape, before Ecthelion and Glorfindel reemerged from the bedroom, hungry enough to look for that unfinished chicken.

Salgant crawled out of his hiding place, trying to use the sounds to mask his own movements. He was about to make a run for the door when the maps jumbled together on one end of the table caught his eye. He slipped one into his pocket.

———

The horror of the scene he had witnessed clouded Salgant's wits: it was only once he was settled in a nearby pastry shop, eating a restorative slice of mushroom pie, that he realized his attempt to discover a way of discrediting his rival had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. The depth of Ecthelion's hypocrisy took his breath away, as did the extent of Glorfindel's involvement. And he had spent years envying those degenerates! He might have found this thought depressing or infuriating, but the realization of the power he now held made him dizzy instead, as if he had drunk too much mead. Salgant gulped down his food and headed straight for Maeglin's rooms.

The sense of power stayed with him as he walked down the palace corridors. Every guard he passed jumped to attention upon hearing his footsteps, and then, as he drew near, stared at him in confusion. After the sixth such encounter, Salgant paused to think. It was almost as if the guards had been expecting someone else: perhaps the usual Salgant, the one who ambled instead of striding and greeted taller inferiors with a grin, not an imperious glance. But if that old, weak Salgant was now gone, why was the new Salgant acting as if he were Maeglin's creature and not a lord in his own right? The moment he told Maeglin, the wondrous secret for which he had risked life and limb would cease to be his. Even worse, the truth might cool Maeglin's useful hatred of Ecthelion.

No, Salgant would not part with his newfound source of strength so easily. He could not abandon Maeglin altogether: he would give the boy the War Games map, together with the suggestion that he share it with the team of the House of the Mole. He might also mention that Ecthelion had contemplated purchasing a larger bed, which should fan the flames of Maeglin's hatred nicely.

No doubt about it, Salgant's fortunes were on the rise.

———

—

­­­———

Author's notes:

0. I welcome all comments: praise, criticism, questions. And I wanted to thank those who have already provided me with helpful feedback: AfterEver, Dagmar, Lyllyn, Nol, and especially my fearless beta Maggie.

1. Salgant is a character out of 'The Fall of Gondolin.' He is described as "a craven who fawned upon Maeglin," and who is "heavy and squat." He spends much of the Fall cowering in his home.

2. Now, about that scroll. The way I see it, 'Climbing Telperion' is one of the positions in which one person holds up the other. This is much easier when the 'climbing' partner is smaller, or able to take on some of their own weight--for example, by hanging off a nearby object such as a tree branch.

3. For the purposes of this fic, Glorfindel is related to Idril through her Vanyarin mother. While not strictly canonical, this is consistent with canon.


	3. Not the Best of All Possible Days

Chapter Three: Not the Best of All Possible Days 

"Oh, he knew we meant it in good fun. Such jests are common among brothers in arms."

"But Lord Glorfindel, how did you get it out of his house without anyone noticing?"

"Now let me think..." Glorfindel tried to recall the details of a prank he had not in truth participated in, but the expectant, trusting faces of the new recruits surrounding his desk distracted him by making him feel guilty over the small deception. When he leaned back in an attempt to take a wider view, he spotted another familiar face—this one somewhat jaded—hovering outside the office door. What luck!

"Ah! Salgant!" The front legs of Glorfindel's chair slammed back down as he waved his guest in. "Exactly the man I wanted to see. I was just telling these fine warriors about the time Gelmir's bed found its way into Tirion's largest fishpond. You planned the whole endeavour; remind me, how did you manage it without attracting attention?"

Salgant gaped, clearly surprised by the request. "Well... We waited until an afternoon when Feanor and Fingolfin were arguing in the square—they started with the proper way to cook venison, I believe, and worked their way up to their mothers. Most of the courtiers were there enjoying the usual spectacle, Gelmir included, so nobody saw us enter his house. But it was his favourite chair, not his bed, that we took."

"Right, right. So it was. But a bed would be thrice as amusing." And would, hopefully, get irredeemably damaged in the process. "But what brings you here, Salgant? Did you want to talk to me?"

"I did, indeed." Salgant grinned eagerly, the way he did when contemplating the main course at palace banquets.

"Very well." Though loath to interrupt the bed-related scheming, Glorfindel dismissed the recruits. They filed out quietly while Salgant lowered himself into the visitors' chair.

"Those glorious old times, back in Valinor," he said. "We have been friends long, you and I, have we not?"

For some definitions of 'friend' this was actually true, even if Salgant's satirical songs about Glorfindel's frivolity and conceit implied otherwise. "Why, certainly, Salgant. Remember all our games of Elves and Orcs? How bravely we wielded our carved sticks!" Glorfindel smiled at the memories. "Little did we know that we would one day find ourselves battling such creatures of legend in truth, with real weapons."

"Yes, childhood playmates. They are never forgotten, are they? Although, in your case, I suppose they have been overshadowed by later connections—such as your friendship with Ecthelion."

Glorfindel found Salgant's dislike of Ecthelion, grounded as it was in a one-sided musical rivalry, unworthy and ridiculous. Still, artists tended to take themselves seriously; if Ecthelion seldom rose to Salgant's bait, it was at least in part because he had better things to focus on in his life—things such as Glorfindel himself. Glorfindel smiled at a different set of memories, and resolved to be kind.

"Indeed, Ecthelion is now one of my closest friends," he said.

"The closest, surely? Your friendship is epic, legendary... so much so that I have been inspired to write a song about it. And I thought that, in the name of our childhood friendship, I might give you a private concert before making the composition public."

Oh, Elbereth, not another satire. "No, thank you, Salgant. I am not in the mood for music."

"Are you sure? This song might well prove to your liking, unusual as your tastes are. It is titled 'Glorfindel and Ecthelion and Their Dueling Swords, or How the Dew of the Fountain Waters the Golden Flowers.'"

Salgant's leer left no room for doubt. Glorfindel felt his face heat up. To be thus accused now, after all these years of safety... what could have given them away? But perhaps nothing had; perhaps this was unsupported conjecture.

"No, sorry, still not interested," he said. "To be honest, I have never cared for your singing."

"Of course not. You can hear sweeter singing whenever you please."

Throwing Salgant out bodily would set a terrible example for the recruits, so Glorfindel got himself under control. It felt like squeezing a cork back into a bottle of sparkling wine.

"Listen, Salgant. I do not know what you are—no, actually, I know full well what you are implying: I've heard your songs about the friendship of Maedhros and Fingon. And I do not believe your accusation merits a polite response." Salgant's expression had not changed, suggesting that defense was not enough. So, Glorfindel launched a diversionary counter-attack. "Incidentally... You know, for a married man, you certainly seem to spend a lot of time dwelling on the possibility of desire among warriors. As a 'childhood friend' of yours, I feel compelled to advise you to stop before people get the wrong idea."

"Thank you for your concern." Salgant crossed one leg over the other, still at ease. "However, I assure you that I harbour only the most natural desires. I sing about these matters because I enjoy amusing people, and people are amused by depravity—at least at a distance. I am not sure how they would react if they knew that this sort of thing is going on right under their noses. Oh dear, perhaps I had better refrain from singing my new song in public, after all."

Glorfindel watched him bounce a well-rounded calf and wondered whether by 'the most natural desires' Salgant meant a desire for food. He felt surprised by his own malice, but not dismayed by it, since he was starting to understand Salgant's purpose.

Blackmail. Ecthelion had brought up their vulnerability to it on several occasions and each time Glorfindel had dismissed his worries with a blithe, "Who would try to blackmail us? Everyone knows we would not stand for it." But now, with his question answered, he found himself less righteously indignant than afraid. Salgant's mouth was twisted with genuine distaste; the thought that he might soon see this expression echoed on every face in the city was nightmarish.

Well, Glorfindel knew how to handle fear: by facing up to danger.

"Oh, do not hold back on my account," he said. "You have made up faintly amusing ditties about us before. Now you will be adding your favourite topic into the mix. So what?"

"So this time my song will have the truth behind it­—and what a fascinating truth! The two of you do make a striking if disturbing visual. Besides, while I admit you have been discreet, I can think of several details that will appear highly suspicious when viewed in the light of my revelations. Ecthelion's drunken singing, for one. Or even this—the fact that you have his portrait on your office wall, right where you can look upon it fondly."

Glorfindel did not need to follow Salgant's outstretched arm to know which picture he meant. It was one of his better efforts.

"Not exactly a portrait, is it?" he said. "More of an illustration of Nevrast, enlivened by the figures of several senior guardsmen. Ecthelion just happens to be in the foreground. And what about the rest of my pictures? The orcs, the spiders, the other exotic beasts? Were you planning to drag them into your accusations—perhaps compose a second song, about me and a Balrog? Come to think of it, you are in the Nevrast picture as well: there, under the apple tree. Are you implying that I feel an unhealthy desire for you as well?"

Salgant fidgeted under his gaze. Then he uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. "I have not come here to listen to perverted suggestions or to argue over trivia. You bluff well, I will give you that—but I do wonder how long you can keep it up. Could you cope with a direct question from someone you respect: from Turgon, for example? Could your upright, forthright friend Ecthelion?"

Glorfindel considered this seriously. While he was publicly regarded as a terrible actor—his recent performance in a charity production of "The Death of the Two Trees" had led one critic to quip, "As for Finarfin, he has the air of one who has just lost not a father, but a handkerchief"—his real problem was not poor acting, but a very limited range. As even that critic had noticed, he could fake good-spirited confusion well enough. Ecthelion was a bigger worry: although he had received stage training, his principles normally prevented him from using such skills in his personal life. Would he be willing to lie to his lord?

"I am glad," said Salgant, "to see you thinking so hard. Here is another question for you to ponder: given that you derive so much pleasure from being universally beloved, how will you feel once that admiration turns to contempt? Once I play... this?"

He raised his harp with a flourish and began to sing.

Glorfindel sat back, shocked. Not by the words—he hardly heard them—but by the subtly beautiful tune, which stirred up vivid memories: an evening in early spring, the reluctance with which Ecthelion had agreed to waste their valuable private time on his music, and the struggle he himself had undergone as he listened, torn between longing to hear more and yearning to get his other senses involved in the experience.

"Enough." He barely refrained from grasping the offensive harp. "I recognize the melody."

Salgant stopped playing. "So Ecthelion shares his unfinished compositions with you? How sweet."

Ecthelion had shared far more in the end, of course. Glorfindel could still recall the sense of immense good fortune that had flooded him at the time, but Salgant's poisonous words had shown him how fragile such happiness was. To protect it, Glorfindel would have to be practical. He thought of a fashionable mock-Doriathrin tavern where atrocious musicians would approach each table in turn, and play until offered money.

"All right, Salgant," he said. "I suppose this is not much different than paying the fiddlers at 'The Girdle' to let me enjoy my drink in peace. Of course, there, the price of a beer usually suffices; I expect you plan to demand more?"

"You wound me," said Salgant smugly. "I would never demand money from a childhood friend. No, I was thinking more along the lines of an exchange of friendly favours."

"What sort of foul favours do you plan to ask of me?" Glorfindel promised himself that if they were immoral or harmful to Ecthelion, Salgant would soon be picking himself up off the floor outside, whatever the recruits might think.

"Well," said Salgant, "first of all, I would like you to adopt a more amicable tone. And then... Surely it is about time you stopped telling everyone not to mind my jokes, as I had a difficult childhood?"

That sounded easy enough—Glorfindel felt no desire to make excuses for Salgant ever again. "Done."

"Good." Salgant smiled. "I also want you to stop calling out to me whenever I walk past the training grounds and asking me to join in the sparring, thus forcing me to come up with increasingly convoluted excuses. And yes, I do know that exercise is healthy, but being hit with a practice weapon is not. Besides, you do not seem to realize that it hurts."

"Well, of course it hurts! But being hit with a real weapon hurts more, and is even worse for your health than lack of exercise."

"Certainly it is. That is why we have chosen to live here, in the safety of this hidden valley, where we do not have to worry about such things."

Blackmail or not, Glorfindel could not let that pass. "I disagree. We are not free from danger, not even in this peaceful city. Everything on Arda carries Morgoth's taint, and—"

"Please spare me the speech. You will not convince me that we are under threat, the Guard is an army-in-training, and its weapons are more than ceremonial. Although I admit that you have hit on a very clever way of turning the paranoid, the bored, and the bloodthirsty among our citizens into your followers—invoking Morgoth like that. Ironic that you yourself are more tainted by the Enemy than anyone."

Glorfindel had heard this before, from Ecthelion. At times, worn out by all the pretense, he had almost believed it. But Salgant's behaviour put it all in perspective. "I am certainly no more tainted than you, blackmailer," he said.

"You are, too."

"I am no— I am not getting into this ridiculous argument. And my talk of Morgoth is serious, and not some political gambit."

"Oh, I daresay you believe your own propaganda. You never really outgrew those childhood Orc games, did you?" Salgant fluttered his hands dismissively. "But if you find our peaceful approach to city-building tedious, then perhaps you would prefer to be outside with all the Feanorian lunatics. In that case, you are fortunate: I would not be surprised if Turgon, upon hearing my song, decided to send one of you two out there."

Salgant's barb struck home. Far more was at stake here than public admiration and private happiness: disgraced, perhaps even separated, Ecthelion and Glorfindel would find it much harder to continue shaping the Guard into a military unit. Glorfindel nodded. "Very well. I will stop encouraging you to spar. Now, are those your only demands?"

"Not demands, requests. And I have just one more—for now. Something that should be close to your heart, seeing how much you care about those who have gone through difficult childhoods." Salgant paused, a cheap actor's trick.

"Well, what is it?"

"Our young prince is profoundly unhappy. He has lost his immediate family, and now the few remaining relatives prove cold. Idril hardly speaks to him. You have Idril's ear; convince her to make the poor orphan child feel welcome."

Glorfindel, who had occasionally considered doing as much himself, looked at Salgant with suspicion. "What is in it for you?" He saw the answer almost at once. "Maeglin's favour. You intend to take credit for the change."

Salgant smirked again. "I am glad we understand each other. Do try to speak to Idril before tomorrow. The gathering celebrating the start of your ridiculous War Games might be a good time for her to repent of her cold ways. Or, alternatively, for me to perform my song."

He shouldered his harp, lifted himself out of the chair, and departed.

———

Once Salgant was out of earshot, Glorfindel punched the table. The tense discussion had soured his blood; he needed to work off the poison. He walked out into the courtyard and, armed with a spear, took up position before a hanging sack of straw. As he struck, again and again, he tried not to imagine that he was attacking Salgant, although the close resemblance between the harpist and the lumpy sack made this rather difficult.

After a few minutes he felt like himself once more, and was able to begin pondering whether doing as Salgant asked, at least until his requests grew unreasonable, was the right course of action. Although acquiescence would buy him some time, it felt wrong, but he could not decide whether the objection came from his pride or his conscience. Such tangled thoughts confused him. He attacked the target once more.

"Glorfindel?"

The familiar clear voice prompted Glorfindel to turn around. Suddenly his day looked much better. He had forgotten all about Ecthelion's planned lunchtime visit.

Ecthelion nodded towards the spear. "What is bothering you—the new recruits?"

"Nothing now," said Glorfindel almost truthfully. As always, Ecthelion's presence made him feel alive and flawless, his body buzzing with a need to prove that every part of it was in perfect working order. He executed a final skillful spear thrust, returned his weapon to its stand, and walked up to his friend. It was only when he was lifting his hand to clap Ecthelion on the shoulder that he remembered Salgant and his song. He changed the hand's trajectory to run it through his own hair, then to gesture towards the water pump.

"Excuse me. I had better..." he said.

As he rinsed off sweat, dust, and bits of straw, Glorfindel tried to resolve his confusion. He had long believed that casual, public physical contact with Ecthelion was not only acceptable, but necessary: it would be odd if his closest friend was the only one he never touched. But was his old system of pretense still valid now that they had been discovered?

"Hungry?" Ecthelion joined him and offered him a towel. "My favourite vendor is in the square outside."

Glorfindel nodded. "All right, let us go."

They bought the Telerin fare Ecthelion was fond of—raw fish, spiced and wrapped up in cooked grain and greens—and sat down on the edge of a nearby fountain to eat and chat about the latest in helmet designs. In all, it was an idyllic moment, and yet Glorfindel could not enjoy it fully. He had discovered a new dilemma: should he tell Ecthelion about the blackmail? Keeping him in the dark felt like a betrayal, but he could not be trusted to react in a calm and pragmatic manner.

"Glorfindel?" Ecthelion sent him an odd look, as if aware that something was wrong, but clearly chose not to pursue the subject, saying instead, "You know, I have been thinking about that Vanyarin scroll you showed me, the one you found in the Marital Health section of the Healers' Library."

"Yes?" Glorfindel felt a pleasantly distracting flash of lust. "Why, would you like to take another look at it?"

"No, I was just wondering what you were doing in that particular section."

"Research. But I will tell you about it some other time. Right now, I want to ask your opinion on a delicate matter."

"But why were you—" Ecthelion composed himself. "Go on."

"I have been having problems with one of my men. I cannot mention real names, of course, so let us call him Imin. Now, Imin has a secret which he has been trying to conceal: a large gambling debt. Another guard, let us call him Tata, has discovered Imin's secret, and is demanding favours in return for his silence."

"Blackmail."

"Yes. Not a particularly vile instance of it—all Tata is asking for is... well, insignificant things, like an exchange of work assignments or less attention on the sparring field." Unable to help himself, Glorfindel added, "Tata seems to be a small-minded sort who does not realize that a normal person like Imin might have fulfilled such requests anyway, out of courtesy."

"He is probably working up to bigger things, trying to get his victim accustomed to the situation." Ecthelion grimaced. "But I take it 'Imin' has done the sensible thing and shared his problems with you?"

"You think that is the sensible thing to do?"

"Of course—are you implying that he has not done so? But why would he conceal a gambling debt from you, anyway? Surely he knows you would not care?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, you see, it is not just me." Glorfindel thought quickly. "Imin is... He is hoping to get married to this girl whose father—Enel—is famed for his hatred of gambling. And Tata is threatening to tell Enel."

"I see. So it is a question of marriage?" Ecthelion rubbed at his temples. "If I were Imin, I would tell Enel myself. It is the right thing to do and anyway he is bound to find out, given how fast gossip spreads in this city. Although I might wait until I had proof my gambling days were over. But what did you want my opinion on?"

"Oh, nothing." After that exhortation to tell all, and the mention of quick-moving gossip, Glorfindel felt no wish to stick with the subject. "You have already told me what I wanted to know."

"Have I?" Ecthelion looked at Glorfindel intently. "Glorfindel, your story has a certain... allegorical feel to it. Now, Maeglin sometimes talks in riddles of that sort, but you tend to be straightforward. Seriously, what is the matter? You know you can tell me anything."

"I cannot talk about it right now."

Ecthelion scanned the noontime crowds. "No, of course not. Sorry."

One of the rules by which they lived was that, while public gestures of affection were occasionally acceptable, tense, earnest conversations were not, since they implied that there was something serious at stake. Glorfindel had often regretted that rule, even envied the ordinary couples who could speak freely, but today he was glad of the excuse to avoid further discussion. Ecthelion, however, did not seem ready to let the subject drop. He kept glancing round the square, lost in serious thought. Glorfindel admired the way the light behind his moving eyes flickered like glints on grey steel, a fitting reflection of the inner battle that was undoubtedly taking place in his mind. He was used to watching such battles. Usually, he found himself hoping that Ecthelion's baser motives would win, but today he was not so sure what side he was rooting for, or even what the sides were.

"Well." Ecthelion returned his gaze at last. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else. Or meet again later today."

Clearly, the part of Ecthelion that usually kept him from missing work had suffered a serious defeat. The proposition was extremely tempting; even if Ecthelion's goal was only a private conversation, he should be encouraged to make such impromptu suggestions more often. Glorfindel could think of several appropriately encouraging rewards. Unfortunately, he was certain that nothing would prevent him from telling Ecthelion the full story if he were asked at a more vulnerable moment. And then there were Salgant's spies to consider.

"Sorry, but I cannot," he said. "I am very busy today. I have to inspect my guards, finish copying out the War Games maps, deliver them to Idril, and help her prepare for her party." The final thought cheered Glorfindel: that private visit would give him a chance to fulfill Salgant's demand. With luck, the whole thing would be resolved by tomorrow, and then he would be able to focus on shaking off his blackmailer. He smiled at Ecthelion encouragingly.

Ecthelion responded with a narrow-eyed look. "You know, you will be even busier after the celebration, once the contest starts."

"Then we will talk after that."

"All right." Ecthelion turned towards the fountain's basin, scooped up a handful of water, and watched it run out between his fingers, his face aloof and serene. Clearly, he was troubled, but Glorfindel decided to leave him alone with his thoughts. With so much at stake, this seemed a necessary sacrifice, not so different from letting a member of a company take on some difficult opponent alone, risking injury, to keep the whole company from harm. Glorfindel was determined to preserve their small company of two.

"Do not worry, Ecthelion," was all he dared to say. "Everything will be fine. At least, I believe so."

"Yes, of course. But I should go. You... Well, we will talk later." Ecthelion stood up, shaking out his hands to dry them. "Good luck during your discussion with Idril."

Glorfindel was impressed that he had somehow divined the importance of that meeting, and took this for a good omen. He smiled to himself fondly, but did not look up as Ecthelion walked away; friends do not do that, not if their gaze has a tendency to linger in an appreciative manner. Instead, he distracted himself by feeding the last few scraps of his lunch to the fountain fish in an attempt to teach them tricks. Even if conventional wisdom maintained that fish were too stupid, Glorfindel remained hopeful.

———

The rest of Glorfindel's day was devoted to paperwork, guard inspections, and occasional fantasies of what might have happened at that hypothetical meeting with Ecthelion. When a glance outside his window showed that the evening primrose was beginning to open, he headed over to the palace to look for Idril.

He found her in the autumn garden. She sat on a low bench, flanked by two of her ladies and surrounded by red-gold chrysanthemums; both the blooms and the ladies were almost, but not quite, as lovely as she. All three maidens were bent over large notebooks, frowning prettily like schoolgirls trying to translate a complicated sonnet from the Quenya.

"Good afternoon," said Glorfindel. "Household accounts?"

The maidens looked up, smiling in greeting.

"Grain surplus projections," said Idril.

Glorfindel smiled back. "I would offer my help, if I thought it would do any good. But perhaps you might enjoy a refreshing walk, my lady?"

"Why not?" Idril put her book aside and accepted Glorfindel's arm. They set off down a path lined with yellowing trees, leaves fluttering down all around.

"So, Glorfindel, to what do I owe this pleasure?" asked Idril. "You look worried. Did you want to ask my advice on something?"

"Worried? Me?" Though tempted, Glorfindel decided not to take advantage of Idril's offer. The Imin-Tata-Enel story did not seem to be working, and he could not tell her the truth without revealing the very secret he was trying to protect. "No, I have simply brought you the maps you are to hand out tomorrow." He stopped and presented her with a flat lacquered box.

"Thank you." Idril took the box from his hand and flipped through its contents, her fingertips tracing the team emblems stamped on each envelope. "You know, assigning starting locations at random seems so unimaginative. Shall we fix the contest? Who should win—Father's team? Yours?" She smiled impishly.

"Could we fix it so that my team loses, instead? And that the Fountain team does even worse? Ecthelion is worried that it's too good, even with all the effort he has put into discouraging his best men from participating. He thinks that it looks bad when our teams do well."

"Of course." Idril shut the box. "In that case, maybe you will join me in rooting for the House of the Mole? Their victory might cheer Maeglin."

This opening was too perfect to ignore. "Yes, young Maeglin is rather gloomy, is he not? You know, I have been meaning to discuss him with you. I think some friendly attention from his lovely cousin might do him a lot of good."

"Oh, I believe I am friendly enough."

There was an odd edge to Idril's voice. On any other day, Glorfindel would have dropped the subject. He decided to be as diplomatic as possible, instead.

"Maeglin can be difficult, I know," he said. "I have noticed that his presence makes you uneasy. But I still believe—"

"You are right, I have been uneasy ever since the day of his arrival." Idril's troubled expression lent weight to her words. "Since the day of Aredhel's murder. I am disturbed by the thirst for vengeance that, with Eol's execution, turned us all into kinslayers."

Glorfindel frowned at this sudden shift in subject, and at Idril's solemnity. Their conversations tended to be light-hearted, even when their topic was serious. However, if she needed to discuss that traumatic day, he would oblige her; it just so happened he had something to say.

"Yes, I remember you speaking against it," he told her. "Asking for mercy. But would it have been merciful to force him to live on in a city he hated, filled with the knowledge that he had killed the woman he loved and that his son loathed him? Perhaps sending him to the Halls of Mandos, where he may be healed, was the kinder act, rather than selfish revenge; taking on the guilt of his death can be seen as a noble sacrifice."

"That is a very thoughtful view." Idril smiled slightly. "I can see you have discussed the matter with somebody interested in ethical dilemmas. But I did not mean to imply that I suffer from abstract guilt. No, I feel a very tangible sense of doom. Ever since that day, I have been having strange dreams. Premonitions of our city's destruction."

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment before admitting, "I have had some rather vivid dreams myself, ones where I fight in desperate battles set outside this valley. But I am wary of calling my dreams premonitions when they could be wishful thinking. Or the effect of too much rich food."

"I see." Idril chewed her lip. "How interesting. We must speak more about it when we have more time. Now—shall we head back?"

She took Glorfindel's arm again. They were halfway back to the bench when he realized he had not fulfilled Salgant's request. He stopped.

"Yes, premonitions of doom are disquieting," he said. "But surely you do not blame your cousin for bringing them about so indirectly. Nor for his parents' character and actions: if anything, such things excuse him. Perhaps you could—"

"No, Glorfindel, I could not." Idril's tone was reminiscent of Turgon at his most formal. "Anyway, why do you persist in bringing up Maeglin? You must have noticed me changing the subject. I know Ecthelion is fond of my cousin; has he asked you to do this?"

"No." The accusation rankled. Glorfindel did not obey Ecthelion so blindly, or, if he did, it was only under very special circumstances. "I merely thought... You and your father are Maeglin's only remaining relatives, and King Turgon is too busy to give his nephew much personal attention. No wonder the boy is so lonely. Family is very important," he finished, annoyed by his own banality.

"Ah yes, family." Idril plucked an orange chrysanthemum from a nearby bush. "That is a large part of the problem, of course."

"What do you mean?"

"It is not really… Oh, it might help to tell somebody." Idril looked down at her flower and smoothed its petals. "Glorfindel, Maeglin desires me."

It took a while for the words to sink in. "But he is your first cousin... Surely he... Are you certain you are not misinterpreting his thirst for affection? Has he spoken of this outright?"

"Not really, but I have been courted often enough that I can read the signs."

In spite of her youth, Idril was wise; Glorfindel believed her. This was a serious complication. Had Salgant known of it? Surely not. Surely he would not support such an unnatural desire, not after what he had said about—

Much to his surprise, Glorfindel found himself sympathizing with Maeglin.

"I understand your distaste, Idril," he said. "And yet... the poor boy. Struggling with a forbidden longing for one who does not return his feelings."

"Yes, of course. I should have known you would understand that. But do not waste your pity on him, Glorfindel. Maeglin does not have your sense of honour. He is not happy with such friendship as I can offer him." Idril walked for a few moments. "He... refuses to respect my privacy. I believe he spies on me—he talks about many of my mundane activities as if he had witnessed them. And then, I keep finding unfamiliar objects on my dresser. Incomprehensible metal devices. Love poems that rhyme my name with phrases like 'rock drill.' Pointy shoes. Who else would leave me such gifts? Maeglin is the only one who advises me not to walk around barefoot. For my own good, he says."

Glorfindel recalled the days when Ecthelion, still only a friend, had repeatedly told him to tie back his hair, for similar reasons. "Hmm. He does sound interested in you. And also irritating. But these presents are a serious matter; how does he gain access to your room?"

"I suspect he uses a trained hunting bird. Anyway, this is not all." Idril twirled the flower around in small circles. "Recently he has begun speaking of... marriage."

"Marriage to you?"

"Marriage in general. Or, rather, things of that sort. Oh, Glorfindel! I do not have the vocabulary to describe this. And neither does Maeglin. He... he keeps bringing up animal breeding. He tells me that, when one finds an exceptional strain of hounds, it is important to... keep the line pure. Litter-mates are often too close, he says, but anything beyond that..." Idril shuddered and shredded her flower, letting the petals fall from her fingers.

A gust of wind lifted them; a few got caught in her hair. Looking down at her bent head, Glorfindel was flooded with a sense of protectiveness. She was so small and delicate and, after all, so young—and she had always spoken of matters of the heart and body seriously, as if they were sacred. He reached down and gently dislodged the trapped petals.

"Would you like me to have a word with him?"

"No!" Idril looked up. "That would only annoy him, lead him to view you as an enemy. I think the only person he might listen to is Father, but I do not want this to come between them. Father has so few people left to love. No, this is a problem I must resolve myself."

"Well, as I have always said—if there is anything I can do... Apart from not urging you to be kinder to him, that is." Glorfindel gave her an apologetic smile.

"Perhaps there is. Maeglin is always at his worst at parties. Might I ask you to escort me tomorrow night?"

"And form a defensive perimeter?" Glorfindel nodded. "Consider it done."

———

Glorfindel walked home feeling weighed down, as if he were wearing his full battle gear. Not because he had failed with Idril, but because his failure had, somehow, driven home what he had been refusing to accept: that someone who wished him ill now had access to his secret.

The Vanyarin scroll was lying on the floor by his bed. He carried it over to the desk, propped it up and reached for his most private sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. Drawing a slight modification of 'The Ripe Fruits of Laurelin' calmed him down, in some ways at least, and the completed sketch made him smile: as usual, his attempt to draw the idealized male form had ended up looking almost exactly like Ecthelion. Of course, this was problematic. Whether their shared secret remained one or not, he could not see Ecthelion approving of any such drawing being put into public circulation. Glorfindel would have to think of different models. Maedhros and Fingon had a certain appeal, but surely they would not appreciate it either... At last, he settled on the vapid-looking Vanyarin man from the original scroll paired with someone who looked rather like Maeglin, only older and creepier.

When the new version was finished, he carried the sketchbook over to his bed. Would he dream of battle tonight? Idril's talk of her premonitions of ruin had come almost as a relief, for surely nobody would care about something as trivial as two warriors' personal lives once they realized that much more important things were at stake. He looked down at his first drawing, and smiled again. It was hard to believe that anyone could fail to understand why he had chosen Ecthelion. And, to a lesser degree, why Ecthelion had chosen him in return. No, he would not let Salgant's scheming come between them. He would speak to Ecthelion right after the party, and they would face this threat together.

———

—

———

Author's notes:

0. Blackmail bad, but feedback good. Especially constructive criticism. I would like to thank Maggie, Born on Sofa, Claudio, Marnie, and Nol for theirs.

1. Gelmir is a popular Elven name attached to a couple of Noldorin warriors, one in Nargothrond, one among Angrod's people. I used it because I hate making names up.

2. Imin, Tata, and Enel are the names given to the first three Elves to wake up. Prosaically enough, the names mean 'One,' 'Two,' and 'Three.' They seem like a reasonable substitute for 'Person A,' 'Person B,' and 'Person C', the names I might have used under the same circumstances.


	4. The Right Thing To Do

**Chapter Four: The Right Thing to Do**

The ballroom was large, so large that its ceiling had to be supported by columns: stone blocks carved to resemble apple trees, their capitals spreading into a lifelike canopy of painted leaves. It would have been the best-groomed orchard in Middle-earth but for the guests filling the space between the trunks like a mass of overgrown shrubbery. A successful party, then. Ecthelion took one last deep breath and walked in, his formal armour clanking with each step in pleasant counterpoint to the music and babble of voices.

"Ecthelion!" Egalmoth stood out even among the colourful crowd: his breastplate, studded with polished stones of every hue, was a gemologist's dazzling dream. "You missed all the fuss with the envelopes. Now, while this was undoubtedly fortunate, it does not seem like you. Has something happened?"

Ecthelion knew he should feel guilty for arriving too late to help with the opening ceremony of the War Games, but in truth he felt relieved that his next, potentially uncomfortable encounter with Glorfindel would not take place directly under the public eye. The relief provoked a twinge of guilt, restoring his inner balance to its usual state.

"Yes, something has happened, although it is not particularly exciting," he said. "One of the fountains in the Lesser Market flooded."

Egalmoth tilted his head. "I know you take your responsibilities as Lord of the Fountains seriously, but perhaps you should learn to delegate. I hear this city has many skilled plumbers."

"This was not a plumbing problem, not really: the fountain's drain was clogged by waterlogged pillows. From Duilin's favourite chair, which someone had tossed into the basin, probably as a hilarious prank."

"Disgraceful. I cannot believe Duilin's favourite chair has multiple pillows, not when he is always lecturing me on my decadent, citified ways. But why were you— No, wait, I know: your men are the prime suspects."

Ecthelion nodded. "Well, they do like to throw each other into fountains when in high spirits, and at the start of the Games all spirits are running high."

"And flowing freely." Egalmoth glanced down into his goblet. "Although definitely not at these formal court functions. I swear the cups here get tinier each year. But come, surely you need a drink even more than I do."

They moved towards a bar stocked with decanters of sweet, fruity cocktails. Egalmoth rummaged around, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, pulled out a bottle of fortified wine. Then he inspected the glasses, picking out the largest for Ecthelion.

"You are probably unaware," he said as he poured, "that Salgant once managed something very similar to that fountain prank. And he has been looking particularly smug lately. I thought that perhaps he was planning to sing us a new song. If he is merely congratulating himself on a successful jest, well then, all the better." He refilled his own goblet, and reached for another. "Do you think it would be rude to take two?"

Ecthelion shrugged. "You could claim to be carrying one to a friend."

"What a brilliant idea! That would give me a great excuse for escaping awkward conversations. Speaking of which—I would advise you to avoid Pengolodh tonight. Our esteemed sage is investigating people's intuitions on Orcish irregular verbs."

"That does not sound so terrible."

"No? Please note that his current victim, Maeglin, looks as if he is undergoing the foulest tortures of Morgoth."

To Ecthelion, Maeglin appeared less tormented than thunderously angry. What is more, he was not even looking at Pengolodh, but at a small group Ecthelion had been aware of since entering the room: the cluster of revelers surrounding Glorfindel, who, presently, flashed a smile bright enough to match his hair and made some joke that set them all laughing. The cheerful mood broke when one of the women—Idril—noticed Maeglin's attention. She sobered and shifted closer to Glorfindel, prompting him to slip an arm around her shoulders and stare back at Maeglin, eyebrows drawn, the very picture of a protective suitor.

Ecthelion was tempted to round off the exchange of dark glances by glaring at Idril, but he suppressed this unworthy impulse. "I suspect," he said instead, "that Maeglin's unhappiness is caused by his own cousin, and not by Pengolodh's grammar."

"Ah, yes. That would be the latest Finwian family feud," said Egalmoth. "Entertaining, is it not? My favourite part is watching the courtiers bent on cultivating Turgon's heir scramble to make sense of the situation."

"You see the awkwardness we just witnessed as evidence of a power struggle?" To Ecthelion, it seemed more like an echo of the jealousy Maeglin had displayed in his apartment, although of course he could not say so. "Do you really believe that our lord's closest relatives would indulge in something so petty and unproductive?"

"You find that unlikely? Oh, Ecthelion." Egalmoth looked at him with fond exasperation. "I admit that I am surprised by their blatancy, especially Idril's. However, we must remember that they are both Finwian, and as such have an impressive feuding tradition to maintain. Just look at them! If you squint, they could almost be Indis and that other tragic orphan, Feanor. A pity Turgon is not here: he would make a serviceable Finwe."

Ecthelion followed Egalmoth's oddly compelling suggestion. It was true that Maeglin, when seen through half-closed eyes, had a Feanorian air—probably due to his smith's build. As for Idril, however... Glorfindel stood beside her still. Squinting robbed them both of personality, transforming them into the blond couple from Glorfindel's Vanyarin scroll. Ecthelion gripped his goblet tightly, so that the carved crystal dug into his skin.

"Yes, quite," he said. "However... Are the courtiers really trying to determine Turgon's heir? It seems a little premature, and not just for the obvious reasons. Maeglin is so young that it will be a while yet before his uncle gives him any great responsibility, and a longer while before we know if he is competent."

"Maeglin is a gamble, true, but a gamble with the possibility of a high payoff. After all, people tend to place their trust in those who selflessly befriend them before their star rises. Also, betting on an outsider is always more exciting than going with a favourite." Egalmoth sipped his left-hand drink. "Now, you and Glorfindel seem to have hit on a good strategy: positioning yourselves on opposite sides of the split."

Coming from anyone else, such a comment would have been cause for worry, but Egalmoth had known Ecthelion's dark secret for years. His ability to refer to it so casually brought comfort—but other aspects of his statement were anything but comforting.

"If that is Glorfindel's plan, then he has forgotten to share it with me. Although perhaps," said Ecthelion briskly, annoyed by his own petulance, "perhaps he realized that I would be uneasy about attempting such a thing. While I am aware that all this court nonsense can be helpful—I doubt that we could have established the War Games without Idril's support—I have neither the time nor the talent for it."

"And I suppose you treat Maeglin kindly because you think it is the noble thing to do. I hope he appreciates it." Egalmoth glanced towards Maeglin again, as if weighing the odds. His face sank almost at once.

"Fires of Angband, I fear I have caught the wrong eye. Still, there is no need to panic, he might still... Ah, Pengolodh!" he said with impressively well-feigned good cheer. "Greetings! No, no, I really cannot stay: I was just about to deliver this drink to Duilin. The poor man needs it badly. He is having problems with his furniture."

Pengolodh blinked with confusion as Egalmoth's broad back disappeared into the crowd. Then he turned to Ecthelion, who shrugged and greeted him with a genuine smile. In spite of their diverse interests, the two of them usually managed to strike upon some topic that appealed to both. This time, it was Orcish battle cries. Ecthelion could remember a large number of such utterances, which, according to Pengolodh, provided many fascinating examples of the imperative form. Meanwhile, Pengolodh's translations, more precise than anything Ecthelion could have derived himself, revealed a great deal about Orcish battle tactics.

"I really should write this down," said Pengolodh at last. "Will you excuse me? If I hurry, I might be able to complete a small essay by morning... Although, wasn't there something else I meant to ask you about?" Pengolodh looked up, his eyes flickering from side to side as if reviewing some interior catalogue. "I have it! Not something, someone: Lord Glorfindel."

Ecthelion hid his misgivings under a helpful expression. "What about him?"

"Well... Even I, who rarely follow court gossip, know our princess has a new admirer: one of my assistants accidentally discovered a draft of a poem dedicated to her." Pengolodh grimaced. "A very early draft, I think. Also, I recently ran into Lord Glorfindel at the Healers' Library. In the Marital Health section, no less. And now that I see them standing together so faithfully, I cannot help wondering if Lady Idril wasn't the reason behind his visit."

"Glorfindel has said nothing to me."

"Still, would it not be a wonderful thing for your friend? Marriage is the natural course of life, after all, and they do look so harmonious together, like book-ends."

Pengolodh was right: Glorfindel and Idril did appear well matched, a storybook couple as well as a Vanyarin scroll one. Even their outfits complemented each other—surely by design. Ecthelion felt a little unsteady.

"I see what you mean," he said. "Well... Good luck with your essay. I think I need some fresh air."

He turned his back on the revelry and approached a nearby window. The music played on behind him: familiar songs all, but distorted by the noise of the crowd so that the melodies sounded new and strange. Outside, the real trees of an orchard echoed the room's sculptures. There was a grim joke to be made here, something about facing reality.

Pengolodh's words had revealed nothing new, except the existence of an awful poem that had an alternative explanation. Pengolodh's theory, however, echoed Ecthelion's worst suspicions. It explained so much: Glorfindel's odd behaviour at the fountain, his unwillingness to meet or even touch Ecthelion, that ridiculous story of his—a story about a man putting aside vice in order to marry. And that Vanyarin scroll! Ecthelion suppressed a groan. He had long noticed, and tried to ignore, Glorfindel eyeing married couples with envy. The scroll suggested that his envy was grounded in something more physical than a dislike of secrecy and interruptions. True, he had been fairly enthusiastic lately, but ardour can be a cover for uncertainty. If only they could speak plainly...

Ecthelion felt a touch on his elbow. He turned around and blinked in surprise, for there, as if summoned by magic, stood the focus of his thoughts.

"Ecthelion. Here at last." Glorfindel leaned in closer, his hair brushing Ecthelion's shoulder. "I know we are both riding out into the Valley early tomorrow, but perhaps we might meet later tonight, after this nonsense is over?" His fingers slid up Ecthelion's arm, holding on lightly. It was a perfectly innocent gesture, but under the circumstances it made Ecthelion feel stupid with hope.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he said.

"Good." Glorfindel smiled. "In the meantime... It seems that some of my recruits are outside, asking to see me. Would you mind keeping Idril company for a moment?"

The shock hit Ecthelion like cold water, so that he found himself sympathizing with Duilin's drowned chair. "Certainly." He shrugged off Glorfindel's grip and stepped around him to face Idril.

"Good evening, Ecthelion," she said with a smile.

Ecthelion forced himself to smile back. "Good evening, my lady. You look lovely tonight." He scoured his mind for a less inane statement; pride demanded that he get through this encounter with as much grace as he could muster. "Your... your hair is especially radiant."

"Thank you." Idril inclined her head in solemn acknowledgement of his courtesy, then looked up, eyes sparkling. "You know, Ecthelion, I do believe every compliment you have ever paid me has involved my hair."

"I cannot be the only man in the city who finds your hair more beautiful than any other woman's, my lady," said Ecthelion sincerely. "Also, surely your claim is not quite accurate. I know I have often commented on the skill you have brought to organizing the Games—and successful gatherings such as this one."

Idril looked around with obvious satisfaction. "Yes, I think we can both congratulate ourselves. The Games grow ever more popular: most of the court is here. It is a pity Father had to leave early," she added smoothly. "He is so very busy, this time of year."

"Oh, I know King Turgon does not entirely approve of such martial contests. And I am most grateful for your own patronage."

Idril smiled again. "I certainly remember you saying that before. Only you usually say 'we', meaning both yourself and Glorfindel. Of course, you two do work very closely together." She rearranged the drape of her long sleeves. "He thinks the world of you, you know."

"And I think highly of him."

"Do you?" Above her charming smile, Idril's eyes narrowed in appraisal. "It is not always obvious. Sometimes you seem cold—as you did a moment ago, when you barely acknowledged his departure. I suppose that a person of your serious nature cannot help being exasperated by someone more frivolous and shallow—"

"Shallow? Glorfindel?" If losing Glorfindel was painful, losing him to someone who did not appreciate him was harder still. Ecthelion tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke. "I know some regard him as such, citing what they call his mindless optimism. However, consider this: when facing an enemy who deals in darkness and despair, hope is a weapon more powerful than any sword. You come from a family of charismatic speakers who banish fear with stirring oratory; I try to do the same with my singing; Glorfindel does not need to do either. His bright presence is enough. That is why he is the most beloved lord in the city."

"So you think he deserves such love?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good." Idril's tone had been playful; now it was confidential, as if the current topic was one of intimate interest to them both. "Please keep this in mind should he say anything... unexpected to you."

So it had come to that: some shared understanding Glorfindel was supposed to announce to his friend, perhaps even tonight. Was Idril expecting Ecthelion to decipher her hints and offer a covert blessing? The unconscious cruelty of it was breath-stopping.

"My lady," said Ecthelion, "all this talk of one mutual friend makes me think of another: your cousin, who appears to be rather lonely. Is there anything we might do to help?"

"Yes, I have noticed that he misses his mother," said Idril. "And I think it might help him make peace with her memory if he took up some of her old pursuits, such as riding or hunting. You know the Valley well. Perhaps you could take him out there and show him some of her favourite spots?"

Ecthelion was glad to see Idril deflect his tactless question with such skill. He had briefly forgotten a lesson learnt on the training field: that it is unfair to hate another for causing you unintended pain, or for beating you in a contest.

"Good idea, my lady," he said. "Even if Maeglin does not like hunting, being outdoors would surely cheer him."

They were still discussing the matter when Glorfindel re-entered the room through the front door, visible just above Idril's ear. Ecthelion tried to view him dispassionately, ignoring his hair and the shape of his shoulders—to see if he had the serenity of one who has just changed his fortunes for the better, or at least the more ordinary. But he seemed, if anything, unusually troubled: certainly unusually rude to Salgant, who accosted him at the door. Glorfindel barely acknowledged his greeting, interrupted him several times as if eager to get away, and then walked off into the crowd without a farewell.

He reappeared close by a few moments later, still looking so tense that even Idril noticed.

"Is everything all right with your men?" she asked.

"Yes. Just fine." Glorfindel glanced around as if on the lookout for danger. "Now, why don't the three of us take a walk in the orchard?"

"Oh, I think we're comfortable here." Idril's eyes flickered towards Maeglin, now glaring murderously from a stone bench on the other side of the room. Ecthelion was struck by the intensity of his pain, the all too understandable, shameful torment of a man longing to keep something he loved to himself. Perhaps their concerns were the same, in this instance. Perhaps they should be allies, working together to somehow remove Idril from Glorfindel's reach... Appalled by this dark temptation, Ecthelion pushed it from his mind.

"The thing is..." Glorfindel rubbed the back of his neck. "Salgant has just offered to sing us all a new song. And I know this is uncharitable of me, but I am not in the mood for his singing."

"I see." Idril smiled slightly. "The orchard it is, then."

Glorfindel offered her his arm and half-turned towards Ecthelion. "Will you come with us?"

Ecthelion followed them outside, very aware that he was providing the well-matched pair with the perfect opportunity to make that dreaded announcement. What was he to do? He could try to guess what Glorfindel had found with Idril—what men found with women—and then attempt to give it to him: be more generous with soft touches and glances; say more than he felt, instead of less; submit more, or differently. But would such details matter, when the essentials—public acceptance, family—were not his to give?

They started down a lane shaded by walnut trees. In no hurry to begin the conversation, Ecthelion trailed a few steps behind. Glorfindel's continued vigilance made him feel wary, as if he were on rearguard duty. He even found himself scanning the path behind them, taking in the windows of the ballroom—all, bright, and tapered like candle-flames—and the darker outlines of the receding trees.

One of the shadowy trunks made him pause. It looked odd and lumpy, as if someone were trying to hide behind it, unaware that it was far too thin to offer true concealment. Upon closer inspection, the lump took on a familiar shape: Salgant's. Ecthelion was filled with the usual mixture of pity and irritation.

"Salgant?" he called. "If you are training for the War Games, you are too late. The teams have all left."

Salgant straightened up. "Was that supposed to be a joke? I am afraid that I, like most people, have always found your humour a little obscure. And as to what I am doing, surely it is obvious. I am observing the lovely couple." He gestured towards the end of the path. "They are a lovely couple, are they not?"

"Indeed."

"I have heard that you are interested in the lady yourself."

Apparently, Maeglin had decided to share his suspicions. "So have I."

"Of course, I know better than to believe such rumours. What I do believe is that, as an intimate of Glorfindel's, you must be wishing the lovely couple every fortune."

Salgant's smirk was knowing and self-satisfied; his words were meant to wound. And yet, hateful as he was, he was also right. If Glorfindel wished to take his life in a more natural direction, then the honourable course of action was to encourage him. And it was not just a question of honour, but of doing what would ultimately be best for his friend.

"Yes," said Ecthelion. "I do wish Glorfindel every fortune, including a happy marriage."

Salgant's smile faded slightly, but he pressed on. "Well, in that case, I look forward to hearing you sing at his wedding."

"I look forward to doing so."

"You do? I mean, of course you do. You would never miss a chance of flaunting your skills in public, would you?" His smirk looked a little forced. "Well, goodbye, then." After casting one final suspicious look at Ecthelion, he sidled back toward the hall.

Once he was gone from sight, Ecthelion laid his forehead against the cool, smooth bark of the abandoned tree and tried to force his thoughts to a similar smoothness. It went without saying that he was willing to sing at Glorfindel's wedding. If he could not be generous in this manner, then his feelings were no more than selfish lusts. But 'willing' is not the same as 'able' and, try as he might, he could not imagine getting through a single song. Such weakness filled him with self-loathing. He straightened, preparing to leave—and noticed Glorfindel returning down the path, alone. Well, here was his chance to find out the truth from the one source that truly mattered. Ecthelion leaned back against his tree, and waited.

Glorfindel approached him and paused a step away, as if afraid to come closer. Though his posture was awkward, he looked so beautiful as he stood there, golden in the half-gloom, tinged with the glamour of the inaccessible.

"Thank you for covering our retreat," he said. "Now Idril has gone home, and I... I saw you speaking to Salgant. Did he say anything interesting?"

"He said…" Ecthelion could not bring himself to say the words. "He talked about you."

"He has told you, then." Glorfindel gave a small, guilty smile. "I must admit that this comes as a bit of a relief. I hated keeping something so important from you, but I was afraid of your reaction."

At this confirmation of Ecthelion's worst fears, the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift. Thankfully the tree at his back remained steady. He replanted his feet and reminded himself that he had no claim on Glorfindel, that this change of heart only felt like a betrayal.

"Well," he asked, "how do you find my reaction?"

"I do not know yet. You were calm when the two of you spoke, which is promising. Now we have much to discuss. Shall we go to my house?"

Ecthelion glanced around. Yes, of course, they were out in public, but perhaps this was for the best. He could not trust himself in private: he might start to argue against Glorfindel's choice, or even, Eru forbid, try to physically demonstrate that it was the wrong one.

"What is there to discuss?" he asked. "Whether we will still be able to work together? I certainly hope so. Our work is important, and we are friends under all the other nonsense, are we not?"

"Of course. Oh, of course." Glorfindel reached forward, fortunately stopping himself before he made physical contact. "But what should we do about Salgant?"

"About Salgant?" Ecthelion struggled to concentrate. "About the fact that he knows, you mean? I think the best course of action would be to tell the important people before he does. Turgon, in particular. I would suggest being very straightforward about it. And keeping your pride even if he disapproves; why should you feel ashamed?"

"Oh, I don't. Of course not." Glorfindel smiled, his pride and happiness as tangible as the weight of Ecthelion's armour. "All this secrecy... Watching every word I say, even among friends. Every year it gets a bit harder; you must have noticed. At least now—"

"Please stop. Just stop."

"Why?"

Ecthelion wanted to hit him. "Because this is not easy for me."

"You believe that we must stop being… more than friends." Glorfindel turned somber, grey, as if his blaze of pride had burnt down to ashes. "That we must forget 'all the other nonsense.' I thought you might react that way, judging by the way you responded to my ridiculous blackmail story. It is exactly why telling you was so hard."

"How else could I react? Your views have always been more liberal than my own, yet I never suspected—" But no, Glorfindel could not be so debauched, so vain, as to suggest... what? That his lovers operate according to a rota, like guards on different watches? "Look, Glorfindel, this is an emotional moment. When things are calmer, you will realize that parting is the right thing to do."

Glorfindel stared at him. "Will I?"

"I hope so." No, Ecthelion had more faith in him than that. "I am sure of it. Now, good night. And... good luck."

His strength exhausted by that last statement, Ecthelion pushed away from the tree and left the orchard.

———

When Ecthelion got home, his first priority was his armour, which he arranged on its stand, making sure it was clean and in good order. His second priority was... removing his boots? He tried to sit down on the bed, and ended up standing over it, arms folded across his unarmored chest, seeing not a piece of furniture but a cloud of painful memories. The chairs were not much better, and neither were the tables, or the rugs. No, home was not a haven. It was a museum, just like the room where Turgon had gathered items carried out of Valinor. Everything here evoked a lost way of life, even the pull-up bar Ecthelion had never used for any unconventional purpose.

Who could sleep in a museum? Ecthelion went downstairs to his more public office, and tried to read a report on the quality of the fish kept in the city fountains. But even this room was a place where he had been happy, where he had felt happiness glide through him like fish through water, sometimes in plain view, and sometimes as a flicker at the edge of his mind when, working alone, he had let a thought stray in Glorfindel's direction. That could never happen again. He sat there, blinking, as the words of the report swam before his eyes.

A knock on his front door saved him. He was out of his seat and rushing towards the entrance before he could think. When he saw it was only Elemmakil, his disappointment was bitter—yet easy to swallow, for here was a real problem, something to take his mind off his trivial personal troubles. As the captain of the Fountain team, Elemmakil should have been far out in the Valley by now.

"Lord Ecthelion." Elemmakil bowed. "I would like to report that there was a mistake on my team's War Games map."

Ecthelion rubbed his eyes. Had Elemmakil ridden all the way back to complain about a cartographical error? "What sort of mistake?"

"The map was... a little too informative. But see for yourself, my lord."

Ecthelion took the proffered map. He did not need to study it very closely to notice that it was not an official one, but one of the earlier hypothetical sketches marked with the starting positions of all the teams. "This was in your envelope? And you bring it to me? Elemmakil, I am the last person you should have come to when your team has received extra information from some illicit source. Surely you can see that, as both your commanding officer and an organizer of the War Games, I am the prime suspect."

"Nobody could suspect you, Lord Ecthelion."

"Who else?" The envelopes had been prepared by Glorfindel. Ecthelion suppressed the treacherous thought that love makes people careless. "I cannot understand how such a thing might have happened, and I do apologize, Elemmakil, to you and your team. It must be such a disappointment to lose your place in the Games, after all the hard training."

Elemmakil brushed at the mud on his breastplate, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, the team is still out there. I copied a description of our starting position onto the back of the envelope and gave it to Voronwe."

"Oh Eru. The integrity of the whole Games has been compromised." It was a total disaster. Ecthelion felt much better already. "Let us go try to set things right."

———

—

———

Author's Notes:

0. I welcome all forms of feedback, and cherish constructive criticism. And I want to thank Maggie, AfterEver, and Eveiya for the beta.

1. Egalmoth, Duilin, Elemmakil, and Pengolodh are all canonical inhabitants of Gondolin. Pengolodh shows up throughout Tolkien's writings as a sage, Elemmakil is the first guard Tuor meets upon his arrival in the city, and the others are leaders of two of the twelve houses mentioned in "The Fall of Gondolin." Both are described as fine archers. In addition, Egalmoth was, in one version of Aredhel's story, named as one of the three lords who escorted her out of the city—and that is the version I have adopted in my fics. Oh, and he really did dress like that: "The men of the Heavenly Arch ... were arrayed in a glory of colors, and every single soldier had arms covered and encrusted with gems. Every shield was blue and its boss a jewel built of seven gems, rubies, and amethysts, and sapphires, crysoprase, topaz and amber, and an opal of great size adorned every helm."

2. Pengolodh's comment regarding marriage is based on the statement that "Marriage, save for rare ill chances or strange fates, was the natural course of life for all Eldar," to be found in the Laws and Customs of the Eldar.


	5. The Only Moral Man in Gondolin

**Chapter Five: The Only Moral Man in Gondolin**

"Hey! You there!"

The guard patrolling the palace courtyard turned and focused his bleary eyes on Salgant. "My lord?"

"Have the lords Maeglin or Glorfindel passed through here this morning?"

"I think Lord Glorfindel is at home. My lord." The guard's voice was low and colourless. "At least, that is where he said he was going when the cooks threw us all out of the mess hall—was it only two hours ago? As for Lord Maeglin, I have not seen him, but I expect he is home as well." He glanced up at the towers of the palace. "Asleep, most likely."

That sounded promising. Before Salgant could report to Maeglin, he needed to understand the previous night's baffling events, and Glorfindel, if cornered at home, might be impelled to answer a few questions. Questions such as why he had chosen to ignore—even to contravene—Salgant's request by trailing Idril all evening, or how Ecthelion could discuss their marriage plans with such nonchalance. Seriously, did these perverts' emotions work differently from normal people's? Perhaps Maeglin was right, perhaps they really were scheming to claim Idril's hand—but if so, then the dark secret Salgant held was all the more powerful.

Drawing on this hidden power, Salgant glared up at the guard, who had slumped against his halberd. "You know, you have no business attending drunken revels just before your watch. You do not look too sober."

The guard jerked upright with a loud clunk. "I am sober enough to fulfill the duties of a man of the Guard. For instance, I am perfectly capable of pacing the streets and answering my fellow citizens' questions in a helpful and courteous manner. I would be equally competent at directing delivery-cart traffic, apprehending peddlers of fake Feanorian daggers, or retrieving over-ambitious kittens from trees. After all, it is not as if the Guard is a true military organization, even if most of my friends get time off to participate in training exercises."

Within this detailed response, Salgant recognized several phrases drawn from his own speeches. He scanned the man's face for signs of sarcasm, but only briefly: the mention of unguardlike training exercises had reminded him of Glorfindel's involvement in the War Games. What if he had left for the mountains already? Salgant dismissed the guard and hurried off towards Glorfindel's house.

He need not have worried. He had barely crossed the square when he spotted Glorfindel striding towards him, wearing a scowl darker than anything a hangover could explain.

"So, mere blackmail was not enough for you, then?" said Glorfindel without greeting or preamble. "No, you had to add fraud to your already impressive catalogue of villainies. How did you get hold of that map? Did you burgle my office? Threaten my men with your singing?"

"What map?" The only map Salgant knew about was the one he had given to Maeglin. But how could that act of military espionage be described as fraud?

"Forget the mind games, Salgant. I refuse to play them any longer. I am, of course, talking about the map you placed in the Fountain team's envelope in a wretched attempt to discredit Ecthelion." Glorfindel looked at Salgant with cold fury. "But your scheme is doomed to failure: this may be hard for a person like you to understand, but some people are above suspicion. Nobody could believe Ecthelion capable of such a thing."

Infuriatingly, Glorfindel was right. Even Salgant, with all his knowledge of Ecthelion's flaws, found it hard to imagine him abusing the games in such a stupid manner. How could Maeglin have failed to see this? Salgant felt like a card player partnered with an overconfident novice. Fortunately, not all was lost, for he still held an ace in his hand.

"They might not believe such a thing given his present reputation," he said, "but when his perversion is made public, they will view him quite differently, I assure you."

Glorfindel took a step closer. "In that case, you will have to admit that it is all your doing."

"Or else what? You will betray your virtuous nature by doing me physical injury?"

For a moment it seemed Glorfindel would do just that: his eyes narrowed like those of a swordsman about to strike. But then, before Salgant had decided whether to cringe or flee, Glorfindel took a step back and deliberately unclenched his fists.

"The idea is tempting, but I would rather do something less likely to incur public disapproval. Let me think... I could encourage my guards to laugh whenever you fumble during training, instead of frowning upon their amusement. I could tell your own men embarrassing stories of your childhood. Or, of course, I could try damaging the city's sweetmeat supply. You see, just because I rarely stoop to petty cruelties does not mean I am incapable of them. Especially now that..." He looked away, towards the Great Fountain, and exhaled slowly. Then his head snapped back. "No, wait, I have a better idea! I am sure that King Turgon would be appalled to discover that you have been trying to blackmail me. So, unless you admit to the fraud, I will tell him the whole story."

Though this piece of circular reasoning, with its attempt to fight blackmail with blackmail, was impressive, it was not impressive enough. "Sadly, your 'whole story' won't seem believable unless you explain the grounds for my alleged blackmail."

"I have every intention of doing so."

"And how do you think the King will treat you, a self-confessed pervert, once you are done?"

"How, a self-confessed pervert? I would not call myself one even if I were planning to admit that your claims are true."

"So, if the King asks you outright, you are prepared to meet his eye and—"

"And swear that I am not physically involved with Ecthelion? Why, yes." Glorfindel grinned, a little too widely. "Besides, I am not afraid of anything Turgon might do, should he believe you. At worst, he will throw me out of the valley; and then I will be able to go somewhere else. Somewhere I get to kill things." The odd, feverish glint in his eye made his declaration convincing. "So, shall we speak with our lord now, or wait until after the Games?"

Logic seemed useless against someone so deranged. Perhaps emotion would work; perhaps Glorfindel needed a taste of the disgust he would encounter if his inclinations were made public. Salgant glanced around the square, and discovered a likely subject: Egalmoth. A shout and a wave brought him closer.

"Good morning to you both." Egalmoth glanced from Salgant to Glorfindel. "How can I be of help?"

"You can listen," said Salgant. "I have a new song I would like to sing for you two."

"Really? What is it about, Duilin's soluble chair?"

"No. It is about your friends Glorfindel and Ecthelion." Salgant pulled out his harp and checked its tuning. Satisfied, he began to sing.

_Two burly men behind barred doors_

_Seeking to spar unsheathe stiff swords,_

_Circle the room, cast off their clothes._

_But when they duel they land no blows._

He paused for a moment. "Well? What do you think?"

Glorfindel shrugged and looked towards Egalmoth—who would not meet his eye, but stood motionless, hand raised to cover his half-open mouth. Salgant felt triumph reverberate through his body as well as his harp when he continued.

_Eager they seize each other's blades_

_Seeking a place to pierce with haste_

_Oil from a flask will feed their flames_

_They pour it on to ease their pains._

"Hold it, Salgant. I think I have heard enough." Egalmoth lowered his hand to rub his chin. "You know, I think I see what you are trying to achieve—a sort of epic feel, to fit your subjects—and in a way you almost succeed. The tune does sound like something of Ecthelion's. The lyrics, however... the kindest thing I can say is that they are more sophisticated than the Idril poem that has been doing the rounds. However, your alliteration is inconsistent, and you use far too many weak words, like pronouns and prepositions."

The criticism hit Salgant like a slap in the face. "That is unfair!"

"Sorry, I thought you were asking for commentary. And even if you weren't, surely you realize that you open yourself to it whenever you share your work with others?"

"I do, but you overestimate my goals. All I tried to do was write a simple ditty," lied Salgant. "A trifle meant to amuse—and enlighten—the public."

"Enlighten the public? About what?" asked Glorfindel. "As I have already told you, Ecthelion and I are not involved in any such manner. And why should we be?" He folded his arms across his chest. "Friendship is superior in every respect: much more stable, and unlikely to be withdrawn at the first sign of trouble."

Egalmoth stared at him, no doubt surprised by this irrelevant outburst, then patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, I am so sorry. I mean," he said, turning back towards Salgant, "I do apologize for getting so caught up in analyzing the awkward form of your song that I forgot to comment on the content. Which I find to be in poor taste."

This display of solidarity among muscle-bound idiots irritated Salgant. "You cannot tell me you were not amused, you who have always enjoyed similar songs about Maedhros and Fingon!"

"Yes, I suppose I have," said Egalmoth. "But humour is so chancy, isn't it? A small change can make or break a joke. And I suppose the reason why I find this song distasteful rather than amusing is that, while Maedhros and Fingon are remote and pretentious figures, I know and like Glorfindel and Ecthelion. As do many other people in this city, of course."

"You will all like them less once you realize I am right, no matter what Glorfindel says."

Egalmoth rubbed his chin again. "And how do you plan to prove your claims? By singing?"

"Well..." With the map business, and Glorfindel's wrath, hanging over his head, Salgant did not dare mention the table incident. "I..."

"Right," said Glorfindel. "You have no proof. Now, please excuse me: I have many real matters to attend to."

He strode off. Salgant waited until he was out of earshot before saying, "It is true that I have no tangible proof, but a witness has seen them going at it like—"

"What witness?" asked Egalmoth. "Where?"

"A reliable, respectable one. At, er, Glorfindel's house."

"At Glorfindel's house? You know, Salgant, I am not inclined to trust this witness of yours. I suspect that a person who admits to spying on people during intimate acts, in their own homes, no less, is also likely to enjoy making up lewd stories for personal pleasure."

"I never said the witness enjoyed himself! He was simply concerned for the city's moral tone. It is all horribly disgusting, two men together—or don't you agree?"

"Is it?" Egalmoth grimaced. "I suppose it might be, if one considers the details. But then so are many other things, such as the digestive process. And we certainly don't despise people just because they eat, do we?" He looked at Salgant's midriff pointedly. "You know, perhaps this 'witness' of yours should worry less about moral tone, and more about muscle tone."

Other than pulling in one's stomach, there seemed to be no appropriate response to this misguided rudeness. So, Egalmoth knew Salgant was the witness, and probably believed him—and did not care! Clearly, befriending deviants did strange things to a man's morals. Or perhaps... Perhaps he actually participated in their activities. Perhaps this was how all the muscle-bound idiots amused themselves, out of Salgant's sight.

"Sorry, Salgant." Egalmoth clapped him on the shoulder. "I could not help myself: it was too good—or, rather, too bad—a joke to miss."

Salgant shrugged off his tainted touch and looked up, preparing to deliver a lecture, but what he saw on the other side of the square knocked all such improving thoughts out of his mind. Glorfindel was climbing the stairs leading to the palace! The palace! Why was he going there? Did he intend to tell Turgon right away? In his strange mood, anything seemed possible. Alarmed, Salgant gave chase.

Closing the distance proved a bit of a struggle, since Glorfindel walked at full stride, forcing Salgant, with his much shorter legs, to trot in an undignified and exhausting manner. He was on the verge of giving up when his quarry disappeared through the door to the eastern terrace. Recalling that the terrace had no other exits, Salgant took a moment to regain his breath before approaching the doorway.

Glorfindel stood in one of the far corners, engrossed in conversation with Idril and one of her ladies. Both maidens held practice staffs. Of course! This was the place where Idril customarily did her morning exercises. Idril, who, in her soft-heartedness, might make a far more forgiving confessor than Turgon; who might even be willing to protect Glorfindel from her father's wrath. But was Glorfindel, in fact, confessing? Maddeningly, Salgant was too far away to hear, and could not very well move closer without being noticed.

Unless...

The wall on Salgant's right was obscured by a long free-standing sculpture representing the Glorious Battle: a dense mishmash of Elves, Orcs, and Dragons, which had been banished to the terrace for being either too martial or too hideous, depending on whom you asked. The space behind this monstrosity appeared to be vaguely Salgant-sized.

It was too good a chance to miss. Salgant wriggled in behind the statue. Viewed from this new perspective, the tangle of limbs and weapons looked less like a solid block of marble and more like leafless shrubbery: numerous gaps provided a perfect view of the entire terrace. Salgant selected the densest part of the statue and peered through a hole that seemed particularly well camouflaged, by a rather deflated-looking dragon corpse.

Idril's lady was gone. Looking back the way he had come, Salgant caught a glimpse of her as she stepped out through the door. But Idril and Glorfindel stood closer together than ever, his head bent forward to catch her words.

"Surely you see," said Idril, her tone urgent, intimate, "that the last thing we want is to draw attention to the problem. If Father hears of it, it could jeopardize everything. As you know, he doesn't entirely approve."

So, Idril was trying to dissuade Glorfindel from sharing his story with Turgon! But what was this jeopardized 'everything'? Her planned marriage?

"Yes, of course," said Glorfindel. "Still, Ecthelion thinks that—"

"With all respect due Ecthelion, he is not always right."

"I know that. Only too well." Glorfindel folded his arms, exactly as he had done back in the Square. "In fact, sometimes I—"

"Good. Look, why don't you ride after him and try to change his mind? I think you stand a fair chance. Tell him what I said: that Elemmakil is the only person who knows the truth, and that he is not likely to tell anybody, and also that—"

"Right." Glorfindel nodded. "Don't worry, I know how to argue with Ecthelion. Well, as long as I can get him to pay attention—but I expect he'll be willing to discuss this, at any rate. He's had a couple of hours' start, of course, but I am the better rider on a better mount, and more familiar with the War Games area, so if I leave now..."

The words poured over Salgant, the meaning of individual sentences clear enough, and yet he could not make sense of the whole. It sounded as if Ecthelion had, upon hearing about the blackmail, lost his nerve and decamped in the night—cowardly behaviour that would have thrilled Salgant, if only he could have believed it. But why was Idril acting so concerned? Was she an active member of Glorfindel and Ecthelion's conspiracy? And what did Elemmakil and the War Games area have to do with anything?

"Wait—I think someone's coming." Idril tilted her head in the direction of the terrace door.

When Salgant did the same, he became aware of the muffled sound of two voices, one female and soothing, and the other male, tense, and loud enough that Salgant could identify a few words, such as "command," "aside," and "Prince."

"Maeglin!" said Idril.

Glorfindel took a step towards the doorway. "Let me get rid of him for you."

"Oh no, you mustn't." Idril placed a hand on his elbow and took a few steps back, pulling him along with her. "Haven't you heard what people are saying about you and me? If he sees you here, he will become utterly unreasonable, and remain that way for hours." She glanced around the terrace. "But look—the sculpture! I believe there is a gap behind it. Why don't you slip in there while I deal with Maeglin?"

Salgant flattened himself against the wall, heart thumping wildly, while Glorfindel's eyes swept over the statue, for a moment seeming to gaze directly into his own. But then Glorfindel looked down at Idril, a mulish expression on his face.

"No," he said. "I am tired of hiding."

"What?" Idril gave him a small push, but he remained immobile, as if he were carved from stone himself. "Come on, we have no time for this."

"Sorry, I just cannot do it. But perhaps..." Glorfindel regained mobility and strode off towards the edge of the terrace. After casting a quick glance downward, he swung first one leg, and then the other, over the balustrade—annoyingly, he was tall enough to do so with ease—and turned to face Idril.

"This is the fastest way to the stables," he said. "Oh, do not worry," he added when she ran up and touched his arm. "This carved, vine-covered wall—I've climbed far worse in the mountains."

He laid his hand over hers and smiled comfortingly. With the glow of the early sun behind them, casting a halo around their heads and turning their golden hair to liquid light, they made a nauseatingly attractive couple. Then Idril pulled away and hurried towards the door, while Glorfindel grasped the railing and lowered himself down, quickly disappearing. Salgant listened for a scream and a thud, in either order, but instead heard a familiar imperious voice.

"Whom were you speaking to?" Maeglin stalked into Salgant's field of vision, eyes squinting about suspiciously.

"Nobody." Idril crossed the terrace behind him and retrieved her practice staff. "I was rehearsing my War Games prize ceremony speeches."

"I distinctly heard more than one person." Maeglin's gaze settled on the statue. Salgant's heart, which had only just recovered from Glorfindel's scrutiny, began to pound again.

"You probably heard me interjecting the winners' responses. It amuses me to do their voices," said Idril. "But please, feel free to check behind the sculpture. It is the reasonable thing to do, after all."

"Do not mock me!" Maeglin spun around, his dark cloak swirling. "I am not here to crawl about behind statuary!"

Salgant bit down on his knuckles to suppress a relieved whimper. Idril, meanwhile, hefted her weapon as if testing its weight. "Well, why are you here?" she asked.

"I am here to tell you that I am not fooled by the show you and Glorfindel put on at the party. Did you really think I would fail to notice that you left at the same time as Ecthelion—whom I spotted leaving your tower in the small hours this morning?"

"Ecthelion? Leaving my tower? You must mean Elemmakil, who brought me a message from Ecthelion: their uniforms are similar."

"Ah." Maeglin's shoulders slackened with relief before tensing again. "But what was the nature of this message?"

"That is not your business. Indeed, none of this is."

"Oh, but it is, my fair cousin. You see, I know about you and Ecthelion—he all but admitted to me that he plans to wed you."

"Ecthelion is interested in _me_? Oh." Idril glanced towards the railing where Glorfindel had begun his descent. "How awkward. Although..."

"Although nothing!" Maeglin paused for a moment. When he resumed speaking, his voice was softer. "I am glad you did not know of his plans. Now that you know—are you not appalled by the presumption, by the insolence, of someone like him hoping to woo you?"

"Of course not! He is one of the most eligible men in the city."

"Idril, you are kind and gentle and innocent." Maeglin advanced towards his cousin, who reacted by moving backward, matching him step for step as if performing a courtly dance. "I expect this is why you cannot see his base motives."

"What base motives?" Idril's tone was sharp. "You think he pursues me out of unwelcome lust?"

"No!" Maeglin paused mid-step, his face reddening. "At least, I hope not. Even he must know you are not to be thought of like that. I meant excessive ambition—the lust for power, if you will. You must understand that someone so far below you in blood has much to gain from such a marriage."

"I do understand that, Maeglin. As Father's heir, I was raised in the knowledge that the man I married would share my inheritance. But that does not mean—"

"It does not mean that you must marry an inferior. Not when you could choose someone of equal birth."

Maeglin had spoken as if his words were fraught with significance—and Idril seemed to receive them as such: her eyes widened in shock. For a moment they stood motionless and silent. Then, both spoke at once.

"Maeglin—"

"Idril—"

"Maeglin." Idril held her staff out in front of her body in a defensive pose. "Please, say no more!"

"But I must! I have waited too long as it is. Besides, why should I remain silent when what I want to say is no secret to you? You understand me, I know you do. I have sent you my finest works: my poems, my lembas-cutting machine, even the schematics for my new self-lubricating hinge. You must have seen the stamp of my craftsmanship upon them, and known them for tokens of my love."

Salgant's mind swam with confusion. While Maeglin's words explained a great deal, including all those rumours about Idril's strange new admirer, they could not explain why everyone in the city was suddenly full of unnatural lusts. Or had this sort of thing been going on the whole time, not just among the warriors, but among all the beautiful people? If so, Salgant felt glad to be ill supplied with beauty. Moral values were far more important.

Idril, at least, seemed to agree. "Maeglin, you must not say such things! We are close kin, you and I—"

"We are not siblings, nor are we mother and son... nor father and daughter. No, we are merely cousins. Among my father's people, cousins may wed."

"Perhaps they may, but under the laws I live by—"

"What are laws to love? Especially to those of our blood? Our parents challenged the Valar themselves—surely we can challenge something so insignificant as the laws of the Noldor! Think of how glorious we could be! Between the two of us, we combine the three kindred. Our children—"

"No, no, no!" Idril's staff clunked against the floor; she had raised her hands to her ears. "Maeglin... please, stop this. What you speak of is wrong. And even if it was not, I do not love you."

"Not at present, perhaps. But it took Father a while to win Mother's heart. They fought a lot, at first... well, and later, too. But Mother always said that irritation was close to passion. And she used to look at Father just as you look at me now."

Idril grimaced. "Maeglin, your parents..."

"I do not deny that your glances hurt me. In fact..." He tossed his cloak back and cleared his throat before declaiming,

_Oh noble, proud, and sweet Idril_

_Though your fair hair my heart does thrill,_

_Your coldness is a bitter pill._

_At times it makes me feel quite ill._

"Maeglin!" Idril clapped her hands over her ears again. "Oh, please spare me this, at least!"

Maeglin's response was to raise his voice.

_Your words so chill anneal my will._

Idril made a small sound of pain and fled from the terrace. Maeglin followed, rhymes like 'quill,' 'skill,' and even 'zeal' dropping freely from his lips.

Even left alone, Salgant found it hard to calm himself. Fortunately, he recalled the bag of caramels he carried in his harp case, as a remedy for sore throats and frazzled nerves. It took five before he could think clearly enough to decide that he had to drop Maeglin, and two more to realize that it might be safest to drop almost everyone he knew. The day's events had shown that nobody—not even Idril, who in spite of her words to Maeglin was clearly an active member of the conspiracy of perverts—could be trusted to have principles. From now on, Salgant would put his trust only in the man whose opinion even she feared: in Turgon.

But before he could share his findings with his king, Salgant would need proof. The conversation with Egalmoth had made that clear. Well, he still had Maeglin's keys. He would start by searching Ecthelion's home for evidence.

———

Although Salgant had never been to Ecthelion's private apartment before, the size of the main chamber did not surprise him: after all, Ecthelion probably needed a lot of room to house his overgrown ego. What did surprise him was the bed which, in contrast to the other, carefully-ordered furnishings, stood at an awkward angle right in the middle of the floor. Yet one more indication that Ecthelion's life centered on perversion. Repulsed, he circled it at a distance to reach Ecthelion's desk.

He had only just bent over it when he heard a creak, and glanced up to see that the door that presumably led to the washroom was now ajar. He scrutinized the opening for several moments, but, though he had the distinct sense that it was scrutinizing him back, nothing further occurred. He returned to the desk, telling himself that his footfalls must have disturbed the door.

A loud bang of wood on plaster, followed by the clatter of many booted feet, proved him utterly wrong. He turned around just in time to see several young guardsmen—it looked like three or four, even if it sounded more like a dozen— tear out of the washroom and down the main stairs.

Salgant crumpled to the floor, weighed down by his overburdened imagination. How could the presence of all those men in Ecthelion's washroom have anything but a debased explanation? And where had they gone? To tell one of Ecthelion's lieutenants—perhaps the well informed Elemmakil—about an unwelcome intruder? Salgant could not take that risk. He forced his shaky legs to take up his weight again, and stumbled out into the streets of his astoundingly immoral city.

———

—

———

Author's notes:

0. Thanks to betas Maggie and Eveiya, and Dragonlady and Lyllyn, for their comments.

1. About Salgant's card-playing metaphor: I am assuming that my Elves play, if not bridge as we know it, then something similar. I had them gamble using cards even in the prequel, so the anachronism is in the universe already.

2. Maeglin's parents did have a rather complicated relationship. Tolkien hints that Eol drew Aredhel in with enchantments. They did seem to argue a great deal. Eventually, she left him to return to Gondolin; he followed her there, and killed her with a poisoned javelin. (It was an accident: he was aiming for Maeglin.)


	6. Like a Crippled Orc

**Chapter Six: Like A Crippled Orc**

Ecthelion was wrong. Wrong to disrupt the Games, wrong to refuse to even discuss the blackmail, and certainly wrong to break with Glorfindel so bluntly. He seemed determined to destroy things the moment they got complicated, which was cowardly and lazy, and probably a thousand other things Ecthelion claimed to deplore. A cold-blooded hypocrite, that is what Ecthelion was.

Glorfindel hoped to point this out to him in the very near future. This was the right part of the forest. Also, although the ride from the city had aggravated his headache, the pain was fading now as he strolled through the leafy shade, so he could concentrate on scanning his surroundings.

Just up ahead, he spotted a flash of red: the crimson tunic of a War Games judge, weaving through the trees. The judge wearing it walked with a familiar, determined stride. Glorfindel hastened to catch up.

"Ecthelion!"

Ecthelion stopped, turned, and waited in silence. His eyes swept over Glorfindel's green-clad torso before gazing up to gauge the position of the sun.

"You... You have come early," he said. "And not through the command centre, I see."

"No. I was in a hurry to talk to you."

Ecthelion finally met Glorfindel's eyes. "You were?"

"Yes. About that note of yours."

"My note? Right." Ecthelion shook his head as if to clear it. One of his braids fell forward, light flashing off a silver clasp far more ornate than those he usually wore. He must have left it in overnight. It suited him, as did the vivid tunic; they softened his features. "What about my note?"

"Well, you were planning to recall the Fountain team. Have you done so already?"

"No, but I believe I am on their trail."

"Good." On the ground by their feet, disturbed leaves revealed a faint path. Glorfindel gathered his courage. "Listen, would you consider changing your plan? Idril and I, we talked, and—"

"Oh, did you? I see." Ecthelion's chin went up. "Look, I realize you... respect Idril, but she is not always right. I have thought this through, and I stand by my decision."

"It was not just her idea! And I resent the implication that I am incapable of thinking for myself. Especially since Idril, in her turn, seems to believe that I am overly influenced by you."

"Does she now? In that case, you have my sympathy. It must be painful to live with such a conflict of loyalties."

"What?" Being the target of Ecthelion's rudeness, in particular such confusing and undeserved rudeness, felt like being hit on the elbow: the discomfort far exceeded the force of the blow. Glorfindel struggled to keep his composure. "Come on, let us discuss this rationally. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by recalling the Fountain team?"

"I want to ensure the Games are fair."

"How? It seems a little late for that."

"The Fountain team—"

"Has no captain, and a vastly inferior map. And has spent the last few hours trying to overcome these disadvantages, no doubt valiantly. Tell me, how is their presence in the contest unfair to anyone else, and how can forcing them to abandon their struggles be called anything but cruel?"

For a moment, Ecthelion stared at Glorfindel in silence. Then he frowned. "Did Idril really tell you to say that? It sounds more like your kind of reasoning."

"That's because it is. I told you I have my own opinions on the subject. What Idril said was that it would be better for the reputation of the Games if we did not cause a stir—which may be equally true, but I find my argument more convincing, myself."

"Yes, yes, so do I. You always—" Ecthelion looked away and passed a hand over his face before nodding. "All right, then. I will let the Fountain team be."

"Good." Happy to meet his first objective so quickly, Glorfindel stepped closer and clapped Ecthelion's shoulder—only to find his arm shaken off.

"Please do not do that," said Ecthelion. "You know I dislike it when people touch me."

Glorfindel got that knocked-elbow feeling again. Yes, matters between them were awkward, but surely this was no reason to relegate him to the ranks of 'people'? He sent Ecthelion a wounded look before pulling himself together. "There is another thing. Unlike you, I am not convinced teams other than the Fountains would report an overly accurate map. I think we should check on everyone, as soon as possible."

"Valar, you are right! I suppose I should have talked to you before I left. Of course, Elemmakil said you were out when he tried your house..." There was a hint of suspicion in Ecthelion's glance.

Glorfindel decided not to explain about the drinking, lest the suspicion turn into overt disapproval. "Yes, well, I am here now," he said with his brightest smile. "Why don't you give me your tunic and head back to the command centre to pick up another? You can check on the northern teams; I will handle the ones around here, including the Fountains."

"Good idea." Ecthelion pulled off his tunic in one familiar fluid motion and handed it to Glorfindel, who immediately regretted that he could think of no plausible excuse to ask him to remove his shirt as well. But, whatever Ecthelion's problem was, he did not seem to be in the mood for such suggestions. Anyway, duty called. They parted.

———

Glorfindel found his last two teams—those of the Tree and the Hammer—together in a clearing where they had just concluded a pitched battle. A bloody one, judging by the number of colourful stains adorning the contestants' white tunics. Quite a few men had been marked thrice, and therefore killed: they now sat in the centre, while the survivors glared at each other from opposite sides of the battlefield, deliberately coating their weapons with fresh paint.

Glorfindel walked out towards the bored-looking judge watching over the corpses. "How goes it, Egalmoth?" he asked. "What is this, a truce?"

"A judge-enforced one. We have a real injury." Egalmoth gestured towards a pale soldier of the Tree wearing an arm-splint. A second judge fussed with his bandage; one of the Hammers loitered nearby, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself. "Fortunately, we know who is responsible. Not like last year, when nobody would admit to that Swallow's broken ribs."

"Well, it is rather embarrassing to have so little control over one's weapon." Glorfindel himself had not caused a serious training injury in decades. "Speaking of embarrassing—can I ask you something in private?"

"Certainly." Egalmoth led the way to a spot out of the soldiers' earshot. "If this is about what Salgant said after you left, well, he did imply he has been entering your home to spy on you. Not sure he was serious, but..." He trailed off with a shrug.

"Thank you for telling me—I think that sounds very plausible." It would explain how Salgant had obtained the map. But could it explain how he had uncovered Glorfindel's secret? Had he, Eru forbid, witnessed anything particularly personal? Glorfindel regretted not having heard the rest of that hideous song. "Thank you, also, for defending me so valiantly."

"Yes, I was quite valiant, wasn't I? I do hope Salgant won't avenge himself by writing another song: one about you and me. I know this could confuse the issue nicely, but it might give the maidens entirely the wrong idea about me. I was just starting to get somewhere with Meleth."

"Meleth? Isn't she a bit gloomy?"

"Well, yes, she does keep claiming that Morgoth is about to attack, but that is all for the better: I believe it will make her amenable to my 'since we are about to die, why not have some fun' line. Speaking of such matters..." Egalmoth looked down at his sleeves, as if admiring the way their orange-and-blue pattern contrasted with his red tunic. "You know I would feel awkward talking to you about... well, whatever your situation is with Ecthelion... but I hope you also know that I am always happy to help you drown any sorrows you might have in alcohol."

"That is a most welcome offer, but I am almost certain I can resolve that particular matter. However, just in case it takes me some time... Perhaps you could talk to Ecthelion instead? I can drown my sorrows with just about anyone, but he tends to be more picky about his drinking companions."

"Never fear, I was planning to ask him, too. You know me: any excuse for a drink."

Glorfindel felt touched. "I will gladly buy you a few rounds after the Games, in any case. And if Salgant does write a song about us two, I will make a point of announcing how unattractive I find you, especially whenever Meleth is around."

"What friend could do more? Well, if that is all..." Egalmoth glanced back towards the contestants. "Perhaps we should return to the dead."

"Actually, I wanted to ask you about something else. These two teams' maps: I was just wondering whether they are... peculiar in any way. Have you had a chance to see them?"

"Yes, I have. They looked normal to me. Why do you want to know? I presume you are not merely looking for compliments on your fine draftsmanship?"

"Well, yes, I am quite pleased with them this year." Glorfindel avoided Egalmoth's curious gaze by glancing over his shoulder. "But look, the disqualified men seem to be getting restless. Perhaps I should escort them out of the forest? I need to make a report, anyway."

"All right," said Egalmoth, eyes still narrowed.

———

The main command tent lay conveniently just past the dead men's enclosure and the healers' table, so Glorfindel wasted no time before stepping in. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom: for reasons of secrecy, the tent had no windows. Its pale fabric let in a little light, and some more was provided by a brazier standing on the central table, beside a large-scale map of the area covered with carved tokens representing the players.

"So? How did it go?" asked Ecthelion from behind the table.

"Well, I think. Everyone has the right maps, and I have much to tell you about the teams' movements. You?"

"I could not find the Swallows." Ecthelion gestured towards the relevant sector of the map, which was conspicuously empty. His face looked strained, even in the brazier's flattering glow. "Actually, nobody has seen them yet. Which is exactly what one would expect to happen if a team had a very accurate map, is it not?"

Glorfindel moved closer to lean over the map, and began moving the tokens representing the northern teams so that they matched what he knew of their latest positions, starting with the silver-grey Fountains. "I suppose so, but do remember that the Swallows are good at hiding. Archers have to be, you know. And they get lots of practice when patrolling the hills."

"Hmm." Ecthelion studied the updates. "You know, the Golden Flowers are doing well. No casualties, yet." He arranged the green-gold tokens in a neater line. "But you were right, it was conceited of me to assume that my men were the only target. And someone obviously has a problem with Duilin, judging by the chair prank."

Glorfindel leaned back, silently cursing his idiot recruits. "I do not think the two matters are related," he said carefully. "Salgant likes Duilin—oh, did I tell you I found out Salgant is the one behind this? So even if he has worked more mischief, and if this whole thing turns into a scandal, we'll be able to point out the culprit."

"Salgant?" Ecthelion looked up, surprised. "I suspected Maeglin."

"Yes, so did Idril."

Ecthelion's gaze dropped to the map, and he slumped as if exhausted. Glorfindel experienced a rush of fellow feeling. Neither of them had slept the previous night; even if their fears and concerns made them lash out at each other, they were shared fears and concerns. That was something to hold onto. He reached across the table. "Do not worry so. We will get through this. Go outside and get some air; I can take over here." His fingers touched Ecthelion's wrist.

Ecthelion jerked upright and withdrew his arm. "No, I think you had better go look for the Swallows. You know the area best, after all."

"All right, but let us get someone else in here, then. It cannot be good for you, sitting in this small dark tent all day."

As if on cue, light poured into the tent. Glorfindel turned to see someone pause at the entrance, a hesitant shape in the triangle of light.

"My lords?" The shape stepped in, and resolved itself into a man wearing the crest of the Harp. The front of his overtunic was marked with three wounds of honour: red, blue, and silver.

"This tent is for judges only." Ecthelion moved to stand in front of the table, next to Glorfindel. "If you have a report to deliver, one of us can listen to it outside."

"This is a private matter; please hear me out." The man leaned forward to extract a rolled-up sheet from the top of his boot. "I found this in a book in my lord's library, and brought it here to show it to you."

Glorfindel accepted and unrolled the sheet. Shock chilled him: the paper bore the words to Salgant's song. He scanned it—in spite of his fears, it contained nothing truly personal—before handing it to Ecthelion.

"Thank you. We know about this already," he told the guard. "And we can handle it. But, yes, thank you. Was there something else?" he added when the soldier made no move to leave.

"No... Well, yes." The man hesitated, then whispered, "Is it true?"

Ecthelion looked up from his reading, pale, and assumed a defensive stance, his shoulder bumping against Glorfindel's. But there was no threat in the question's tone, so Glorfindel obeyed his first impulse.

"Yes, it is," he said. "But we would appreciate if you did not share that with other people."

"Oh, of course not!" The man looked from Glorfindel to Ecthelion with awe. "Have you ever met anyone else who... I mean—"

"No." Glorfindel had some suspicions, but nothing concrete. "Sorry."

"We might well have." Ecthelion had recovered admirably: his tone was even. "Without realizing it, I mean. People tend to keep that sort of thing to themselves."

"Yes. Of course." The man nodded. "I really am sorry about this poem. And I would like to help. Perhaps I could put laxative in Lord Salgant's soup?"

"No!" Ecthelion looked thoroughly shocked. "No, please do not. It would hardly be noble. You have already helped by bringing us this scroll, and, as Glorfindel said, we will handle this."

"Very well, my lord." The guard was still staring at Ecthelion, a little too attentively for Glorfindel's comfort. Not that he felt threatened: it was only that the thought of someone else viewing Ecthelion in the same light as he did disturbed him. He put a light hand on the man's shoulder and, with a grateful smile, guided him towards the exit.

"We know about it, do we?" asked Ecthelion the moment they were alone again. "You had seen this doggerel before?"

"Yes. Well, heard it sung, anyway."

"I do wish you had told me." To Glorfindel's surprise, there was no anger in Ecthelion's voice. "Although I realize there is little I could have done. I know you hate even the thought of public ridicule, and I can certainly see how such a song might have made you rethink your life. Is it why—"

"Good day, Ecthelion." The tent flap had moved again, admitting another man: a red-clad judge this time.

"Good day, Duilin." Ecthelion's hands worked to roll up the sheet. "Any news?"

"No, I just wanted to look at the map." Duilin looked around, squinting. "Oh, Glorfindel. Nice to see you here at last. And congratulations."

"Congratulations? On what?"

"I hear you were seen climbing down from Idril's balcony this morning. Well done." Duilin winked. "I do hope that infamous poem was not yours, though."

"The poem? Idril's balcony? I assure you—"

"Excuse me. We are not here to gossip." Ecthelion had returned to his position behind the table. "The map is here, Duilin. What do you want to know?"

"Well, rumour has it nobody has encountered the Swallows yet... and the continuing absence of purple markers suggests rumour has it right. Now, Egalmoth says this means they are lost somewhere, but I know that my men do not get lost. They are, however, masters of concealment, and almost as good at climbing up and down trees as Glorfindel here is at climbing down from balconies."

"Perhaps," said Ecthelion, looking at Duilin with poorly disguised annoyance. "One thing, though: they are not your men."

"What?"

"For the purposes of these Games, they are simply the team of the Swallow. If you cannot see it that way, you probably should not volunteer as a judge."

"Says the man who has been in a foul mood ever since he realized the team of the Fountain was lagging behind this year."

"I am not in a foul mood," said Ecthelion, his voice unconvincingly tight.

Glorfindel had felt sorry about Duilin's chair, but no more. It was not right that this whole mess should cost Ecthelion his reputation for fairness. "Come on, Duilin, that is ridiculous. You know perfectly well that Ecthelion wants his own tea— I mean, the Fountains, to lose. And if he is not in the best of moods, it is because he is worried about the Swallows. We both are; we were just about to go looking for them."

"Good. I look forward to hearing that I was right." Duilin ducked out of the tent.

Glorfindel turned towards Ecthelion and sent his a sympathetic look.

"What?" Ecthelion stared back at him blankly. "Shouldn't you go look for the Swallows, like you promised?"

"Come with me. It will be easier to talk on the way, without these constant interruptions. And we do need to discuss the Salgant business, you know."

Ecthelion pulled the rolled-up sheet out of his sleeve and examined it with repugnance. "What is there to discuss?" he asked without looking up. "People are not very likely to believe this song of his, are they? Not as long as you start your mornings by climbing down from Idril's balcony."

"I climbed down from the Eastern Terrace."

"Then why did Duilin think it was Idril's balcony?"

"Because she saw me off on the Terrace, I suppose. But I am confused now. Are you implying that we should just ignore Salgant's threats? I thought you wanted to tell people. I know I do. How much longer can we keep our secret? What if someone asks us outright?"

Ecthelion stirred the brazier. "Then I think we shall have to be honest. I expect we could lie to strangers, but not to those whose opinion matters. Like Turgon... and Idril. I think—I hope—they will be forgiving. Especially if we make it clear that it is all in the past." He began to tear off tiny pieces of the sheet, dropping them one by one onto the coals. "I intend to request a permanent Gate assignment. Perhaps that will convince them we truly mean it."

Glorfindel watched the song burn. Vile as it was, he should have been glad, but there was something so final about the way the crumbling paper turned into ashes. "But do we truly mean it? Don't you want to fight to keep things as they are?"

"You know that would be wrong."

"I thought we were past that." One of the ash fragments drifting up from the brazier got caught in Ecthelion's hair; Glorfindel reached forward to remove it. "Why do you always make things so complicated?"

Ecthelion winced, but did not flinch away, as Glorfindel's fingers traced his ear and came to rest on the back of his neck. "Because things are complicated. At least, to me," he said feebly.

But some things were simple, and Glorfindel knew exactly how to prove it. He tightened his hold on Ecthelion, keeping him in place, and leaned forward to kiss him. The first moment was strange: Ecthelion stood straight and motionless as a statue. A heartbeat later he twined a hand in Glorfindel's hair and turned to meet him full on, and the embrace felt right, like regaining the use of an injured limb.

Let someone come in now, Glorfindel thought. That would certainly save on explanations. Let it be Duilin, that Harp soldier, anyone: let them see an aspect of Ecthelion nobody else knows. How could anyone expect him to be ashamed of this? How could anyone not envy him, not envy them? Surely they must look as good as they felt as they pressed together, half-leaning on the table, and rocked slightly, delighting in that familiar, perfect fit.

But then the wood creaked beneath their weight, and Ecthelion tensed and pulled away to rest his forehead on Glorfindel's shoulder, silent.

"You cannot," said Glorfindel, "you cannot tell me that feels wrong."

"Of course not. It never did." Ecthelion took a deep breath and stepped back to meet Glorfindel's eyes, his expression severe. "But now tell me: what would your future wife think about this?"

"My future what?"

"Idril."

Was he serious? "Please tell me you are not complicating a difficult situation because you are jealous of Idril."

"I am not! I mean, of course I am jealous. But that is not the only issue here. This, as you say, difficult situation is not fair to her, either. Or does she not mind?"

"Oh, Eru. Ecthelion, honestly. What have you— No, do not answer that. Whatever outlandish theory you have concocted, save it for a time when I need a laugh. Idril and I are friends, and cousins, that is all."

"You mean... You mean you two are not betrothed to be wed? But Salgant said you were."

"Well, if Salgant said it, it must be true."

"But even you, in the orchard, you told me— Oh." Ecthelion's eyes widened. "You meant his song, didn't you? Still, what about all the time you have spent with her, including last night? And the Vanyarin scroll? And your comments on being tired of all the secrecy? "

"I am tired of all the secrecy, that is true. As for the rest... What are you suggesting? That I have been studying that scroll to better seduce Idril, and hoping that you would not mind? What sort of a person do you think I am?"

"I do not know... No, sorry, I do know." Ecthelion pulled his mouth into a grim line. "You are someone used to living outside conventional morality. And someone quite comfortable with keeping things from the people in your life, no matter what you claim."

"That is completely unfair! You know we act that way only because we have to."

"Perhaps, but look at where it has led us." Ecthelion's voice rose. "To debauchery and lies! I kissed you while I believed that... And you, why didn't you tell me about this accursed song?" He knocked the side of the brazier.

The bowl wobbled precariously. Glorfindel steadied it before the coals could spill. "Careful. There are people outside," he said.

For a moment, Ecthelion stilled, listening. The tent-fabric, though thick, admitted the muffled sound of voices.

"I do not think anyone heard," he said shakily, as if shocked by his own outburst. "But you are right, of course. I will find somebody to take over here. We can talk as we look for the Swallows."

———

They left the command centre in silence. Once in the woods, they exchanged their stories, sparing no detail. Ecthelion sounded eerily calm, considering the subject matter: he clearly felt the need to compensate for his earlier show of emotion. His careful walk reminded Glorfindel of convalescing soldiers, and made him think. Though Ecthelion's thought processes still confused him, he decided to be particularly kind to him in the future, as if he really were recovering from a deep wound.

"Look, Ecthelion," he said. "I am very sorry that you went through that. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like to believe I was betrothed to Idril. Or," he could not help adding, "how you could have thought such a thing possible. Tell me, has all that has passed between us over the past eighty-some years left no impression on you?"

"Of course it has," said Ecthelion in his neutral tone, eyes on the path ahead. "I just cannot help suspecting that... Consider the men participating in these Games. Some of them, those who were born in the city, have never experienced battle; no doubt they think this make-believe is close to the real thing, and not just a ridiculous training exercise. So, yes, I cannot help suspecting it could be the same for... for us."

"You underestimate the young soldiers. They know the Games are far from reality. We did not think our training in Valinor was real, did we? When we listened to old battle-tales, they still seemed strange and exotic. We did not fully understand them until we reached Middle-earth. Our men have heard plenty of similar stories. They can tell the difference."

"Perhaps, but we—"

"We have heard plenty of love ballads. Do they sound exotic and strange to you? Or do they sound trite, and yet oddly understandable and compelling, so that sometimes they get stuck in your head for hours on end?"

"That happens to you, too?" Ecthelion glanced at Glorfindel, finally regaining some animation. "I swear, if I ever meet the composer of that hair of sunshine song, I will not be responsible for my actions. But wait—what are you claiming here, exactly? That a tendency to find meaning in trite songs provides one with an understanding of what marriage is like? That is ridiculous."

"This whole conversation is ridiculous. But if you prefer, I will tell you instead that I can understand how my men feel when they express a profound irritation with their spouses."

"Glorfindel." Ecthelion stopped walking, surprising Glorfindel, who had not suspected the comment might cause genuine offence. "Marriage is a union between a man and a woman—"

"Yes, yes, we obviously fail that part. And we wear no rings. But I always thought marriage was about the union of the body and the evocation of the Valar, and we have certainly done both of those. Often simultaneously."

"Glorfindel, that—"

"Is blasphemy, yes, I know. Only I sometimes suspect that the impulse to call on the Valar is so strong exactly because they want us to call on them. But never mind all that; let me try to put this in terms even you can understand."

He started walking again. After giving him a suspicious glance, Ecthelion followed.

"Imagine," said Glorfindel, "that we are fighting orcs. I decapitate one, I slice one in half, I smash in a head or two, and then I try to decapitate another on the backswing, only I get distracted, and—"

"Since when do you get distracted in battle?"

"Thank you. Fine, I remain focused, but the Orc unexpectedly trips, so that instead of cutting its head clear off I merely break its neck. It falls to the ground. It is not dead—but it might as well be. It is mortally wounded, or at least crippled for life. Now, if someone, say Salgant, were to run up to it and finish it off, would you count this Orc as his kill?"

"No, of course not. But what is your point here, exactly?

"My point is that, even if we cannot wed each other, we are close enough to it that neither of us can, at this point, wed anyone else."

"You really believe that?"

Glorfindel was tempted to answer this stupid question with the sarcasm it deserved, but something about Ecthelion's wondering tone made him settle on a simple "Yes."

"All right." Ecthelion concealed a sincere smile behind a teasing one. "Mortally wounded Orcs, hmm? You know, I think you may have discovered that rare thing, an original metaphor. You should write it up in verse. I could set it to music, and I am sure that 'My love is like a crippled Orc' would be a big hit in the drinking halls. Songs with Orcs in them tend to do well, I find."

Glorfindel grinned back. "Do you think it might beat out Salgant's song?"

"Can't you just imagine the look on his face if it did? But let us be serious. You said that you think Salgant is planning to attack us on two fronts simultaneously: by revealing both the problem with the map, and... our involvement?"

"That is what he implied this morning, yes. But when is this attack to take place?" Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair. "I wish I had acted kinder towards him; perhaps I might have bought us some time."

"I doubt it would have made much difference. For maximum dramatic impact, he has to make his revelations while the Games are still fresh in everyone's mind. But not, I think, during the contest itself: people are unlikely to give him their full attention as long as they are wondering who will win."

Glorfindel decided that Ecthelion's insight into the theatrical mind was probably accurate. "In that case, we must move quickly, and tell people before the end of the Games."

"Yes, unless we can think of some way to discourage Salgant, which seems doubtful." Ecthelion walked on for a moment before adding, "You know, I am surprised you are so enthusiastic about this, considering how people are likely to react. I thought being publicly admired was important to you."

"It is. But..." Glorfindel struggled to put his thoughts in words. "The love of the crowd does not feel as real to me, these days, as it used to when I was alone. How can it, when it ignores an important part of me? And if it can be withdrawn over something like this... well, then, it was never worth much, was it?" The thought made him feel oddly bereft.

Ecthelion touched his shoulder. "Perhaps people won't care. Or will get used to it, like Egalmoth did. I am more concerned about Turgon's reaction."

"What do you think he will do? Send us out of the city?"

"Yes. That is why I believe we must be willing to make sacrifices, when we throw ourselves on his mercy."

Glorfindel was torn. On the one hand, he understood Ecthelion's reasoning, and even admired the virtues that prompted it. On the other hand, he felt compelled to oppose any plan that would prevent him from expressing this admiration in a concrete and physical way. It was bad enough that he could not do so right now, and so truly end their estrangement.

"Would banishment be so terrible?" he asked. "We could go get some real fighting done. If those stories about Lord Fingon are true, he might be willing to accept us both, together."

"If those stories are slanderous, he might be even less accepting than his brother. But, yes, I expect that, given our skills, we could find a place in some Elven army. However... I do not mean to sound conceited, but I believe this city needs us. Few others take her defense so seriously. So, you see, this isn't really about our feelings, or my moral misgivings. We owe it to the city to try and stay."

"What about that Harp soldier; don't we owe him something? A courageous example to follow?"

"Perhaps, but the city comes first."

He was right, but before Glorfindel could admit it, Salgant's threats rose up in his mind. "Wait—what if Turgon decides to make sure we hold to our word by banishing only one of us?"

"It would be me, probably, since you are his daughter's kinsman. Well, I will go, of course," said Ecthelion heroically. After glancing at Glorfindel, he continued in a more normal tone. "It would not be as bad as all that. As you are forever saying, the Siege is not going to last forever: there will be a battle, or a series of battles, which will almost certainly end in victory, freeing us from our current obligations. Or do you not believe your own optimistic claims?"

"I do believe them. I doubt it will be easy, however." Glorfindel recalled his dreams: the flames reflecting off steel, the shouts, the chaos. "Many will die, and with the Curse hanging over us, who knows when they will be reborn. Or where."

"I am aware of this. I accept a soldier's risks, for myself and for you."

"As do I. But..." Glorfindel took Ecthelion's elbow, stopping him. "Doesn't the high likelihood that one or both of us will die, with no certainty of return, make you want to hold onto what we have in whatever time we have left?"

Ecthelion stared at him as if dazed by a powerful blow. "Where do you get all these unanswerable arguments?"

"Egalmoth, in this case."

"What?"

"Never mind. Just promise me that you will refrain from making our king any disagreeable offers of self-sacrifice until we are sure he truly is unsympathetic."

"All right. I promise I will fight for what we have."

Ecthelion was not one for empty promises. Feeling that the occasion needed to be acknowledged somehow, Glorfindel stepped closer, and slid his hand up Ecthelion's arm.

"Within reason, of course," Ecthelion added. "As long as it doesn't interfere with our duties. Oh, curse it. Why did you have to pick a forest so rich in places of concealment?"

"What?"

"Well, we really shouldn't risk it, but we keep walking by all these bushes, and that willow tree we passed was almost as good as a tent— Wait. Did you hear that?"

Though annoyed by this most untimely interruption, Glorfindel strained to listen. In a moment, he heard it too: a feeble, far-off cry for help. "Yes," he said, releasing Ecthelion's shoulder. "Let us investigate."

The sounds led them to a space between two pines. A pit had been dug there, deep and smooth-walled; when they peered inside, they saw two agitated men covered in the black paint used by the team of the Mole.

"Finally! Thank the Valar!" The cleaner of the men stretched his arms upwards. "My lords, I hope you have brought rope!"

"Certainly." Glorfindel retrieved the rope from his pack and set about fastening it to one of the trees.

"Never fear, we will have you out in a moment." Ecthelion crouched at the edge of the pit. "In the meantime, perhaps you could tell us what happened? Are you men of the Swallow?"

"Yes, scouts," the man's voice replied. "We were following some rather noisy Moles, hoping to pick them off at range, when we fell into this infernal trap. Then they dumped their paint on us, and ran off, ignoring our complaints."

"One more moment, and we will throw you the rope." Ecthelion edged closer to Glorfindel, as if to check on his anchor. "Glorfindel, I have it: Maeglin," he said intently.

"You think Maeglin told the Moles to build traps?"

"No... Well, possibly. But what I meant is that I have an idea. We know Salgant is hoping to impress Maeglin; perhaps Maeglin could persuade him to leave us alone."

"You think he would do that? Haven't you seen how he glares at us both?"

"Yes, but he only does it because— I mean, I think he might feel differently once I tell him the truth."

"I hope you are right," said Glorfindel before tossing the rope into the pit.

———

—

———

Author's notes:

0. Concrit welcome, as always. Actually, concrit craved.

1. Praise to the betas: Maggie and Eveiya!

2. Like every other named character in the fic, Meleth is a canonical Gondolinnel. She was Earendil's nursemaid, and told him many scary stories about Morgoth and his minions.

3. Glorfindel's views on gay Elven marriage are a rather liberal, but, I think, reasonable interpretation of the Laws and Customs of the Eldar.

4. According to Tolkien, the spirits of dead Elves are summoned to the halls of Mandos, in Valinor, and eventually given new bodies. However, at the time of this story, the rebel Noldor (who include Glorfindel and Ecthelion) are banned by their Curse from returning to Valinor, so their reincarnation seems uncertain, and a reunion with those remaining in Middle-earth—even more so.


	7. The Secrets of the Dwarves

**Chapter Seven: The Secrets of the Dwarves**

An excited murmur swept through the spectators, prompting Maeglin to turn his spyglass towards the prize flag. Could it be this pointless contest was about to get interesting?

Of course not: the mound under the flagpole—indeed, the whole field—remained empty. A scan of the surrounding woods did reveal a few men peering out from the shrubbery, but a band of leaf-covered skulkers from some inferior House could not hold Maeglin's eye; not as long as Idril sat in the audience before him, beautiful and pure like a candle flame, while around her the jewellery of the Calaquendi rabble glittered as if with reflected light.

Sweet Idril.

Although her claim that there was simply no space left on her bench still stung—sitting beside her was surely a cousin's birthright, and there would be plenty of room if Glorfindel stopped lounging like that—Maeglin had forgiven her for the slight. After all, his seat at the back of the crowd had one distinct advantage: it allowed him to watch her closely without being accused of staring. Using the spyglass, he could almost count every hair on her golden head. Now she glanced over to one side, her braids falling back to reveal one perfect ear. What was she looking at?

Oh. Him. Ecthelion had appeared in front of the audience, heading straight for Idril. He walked with a slight stoop, no doubt to impress her with his courtesy in trying not to obscure the peasants' view of the field, where a skirmish was finally in progress. Upon reaching the bench, he made as if to sit on its edge­, but Glorfindel grabbed him by the elbow and—the presumption!—pulled him over into a suddenly available space between Idril and himself.

Maeglin's hands trembled with a fury so violent that the spyglass hit him in the eye. He blinked away tears and tightened his hold. This was his chance to discover his two traitorous followers' intentions, and to gauge Idril's response. Of course, the angle at which all three sat made reading their lips impossible, so Maeglin focused instead on the secondary conversation implicit in their gestures.

Idril's were admirable, as always. The hand she lifted to shield her eyes as she studied the paint-splattered casualties of the battle epitomized both practicality and grace. There was something about her careful scrutiny, however, that suggested it was done in part so she would not have to meet Ecthelion's gaze. "Eru, this is awkward," her pose seemed to say. "I was unaware of this man's interest until Maeglin insightfully pointed it out to me, and now I am not sure how to react."

"I will do my best to charm you out of your doubts," Ecthelion seemed to reply as he pointed out a few archers concealed among the trees with uncharacteristic animation. And yet he, too, was tense: while his hands moved freely, his shoulders remained set.

Glorfindel alone appeared relaxed as he leaned in towards the others, a pleased glint in his eye. "Finally," he seemed to say. "This is working out just as I hoped. Now, maybe if I lean on Ecthelion I can push those two closer together."

Such obnoxious overfriendliness sickened Maeglin, all the more so since it appeared to work. Gradually, the tension between Idril and Ecthelion lessened until they were able to laugh together at a joke Maeglin could not hear. Curse it all! He would have to confront Ecthelion once more, and quickly. Now where was Salgant with his report?

Not in the audience: a quick scan of the crowd made this clear. Maeglin resolved to seek him out at once. He put away his spyglass, stood up, and cut across the spectators, ignoring their complaints.

His first destination was the tree-shaded area where trestle tables loaded with cold meats and fruit awaited the hungry, but, to his surprise, Salgant was not there, either. Nor was he waiting to buy wine, or use the latrines, or to place a bet with the opportunistic gambler who had set up shop under the largest oak, and who was offering insultingly long odds for a Mole victory, apparently on the grounds that no Mole had been seen anywhere near the prize flag.

Maeglin started reprimanding the man, only to be cut off by a distant roar announcing that the Games had finally reached a conclusion, and, more importantly, that the crowd of spectators would soon be swarming the area. He found a quiet spot off to one side and watched them pour in, a tedious exercise made bearable only by his musings on the best way to build a spyglass that could look around obstacles. Idril's arrival brightened his vigil further, but the stream of new arrivals dried up soon after, and still there was no sign of Salgant.

Where could he be? A moment's reflection had Maeglin heading for the command center in the hope of finding a mess or some other source of food and drink—only to encounter a mess of a different kind: of the tents that had stood there, some lay half-folded upon the ground, while chattering guards worked to strike the others.

He wandered around until he found a tent that appeared to be in use, judging by the guard at the entrance. Ignoring the man's feeble attempt to block his way, Maeglin ducked inside.

The pleasant darkness that greeted him within was dispelled only by the glow of a brazier, and the eyes of a handful of crouching guards who had been loading the contents of the tent into crates, and who now peered up at him in some surprise.

"You may return to work," said Maeglin. "I am merely looking for Salgant of the Harp."

"Yes, please keep packing." One of the men straightened up; Maeglin recognized Ecthelion. "Greetings, Lord Maeglin. Salgant is in the contestants' hair-braiding tent."

"Are you sure?" It was just about the last place Maeglin would have looked. He had never seen Salgant show any interest in peasant coiffure. But then, perhaps he had simply succumbed to the strange Noldorin obsession with doing elaborate things to one's hair. Even Ecthelion, normally restrained in such matters, had decorated his with something shiny enough to glitter even in the limited light. He now tugged at one of his gaudy braids, as if embarrassed.

"Yes, I am sure," he said. "We have been keeping an eye on him. We have reason to suspect him of plotting a practical joke, of sorts. The braiding tent is a rather odd choice, especially considering how the Games ended. I expect you intend to congratulate him?"

"Congratulate him? On what? Do you mean to say the Harps won?" Salgant must have given them a copy of his map, the conniving, greedy— But Maeglin would not be distracted. "Never mind all that foolishness. I need to speak to him on another matter."

"Very well, but do you mind waiting a moment? I would like to continue the conversation we began at my house a few days ago."

"All right." Maeglin could not walk away from such a challenge. He stood by while Ecthelion locked the chest, and bid the men load it onto a cart. The moment they left, he asked, "Well? What do you have to say to me? I hope it is an apology."

"It is, in a way. When we spoke back then, we… well, there was some confusion. I grew preoccupied with my own problems—a shortcoming of mine—and so failed to understand what you were trying to tell me. And then, I was not fully honest with you. So, yes, I apologize on both those counts."

"Good. Because, truly, your inept lies were an insult to my intelligence. I can see right through them, just as I can see through the performance Glorfindel put on during the opening ceremony, dancing attendance on Idril all night. No, the sickening arrangement you two have reached is no secret to me."

"Sickening, you say?" Ecthelion sounded unsure, even worried: a most gratifying reaction. "That is, of course, a reasonable opinion, and one I myself— No, give me a moment." He frowned and raised a hand to his temple. "Speaking in generalities feels safe, I know, but some of my recent experiences suggest that being as blunt and specific as possible might prove more helpful. What sickening arrangement are you referring to?"

Was he involved in more than one? Maeglin felt a twinge of respect. "Your scheme to court and marry Idril, of course."

"Oh, that. Maeglin, as I have told you— But wait. How is this nefarious scheme an arrangement with Glorfindel?"

"I have deduced that he is helping you, using his friendship with her to your advantage. He is consumed by ambition, and no doubt hopes to…" Seeing Ecthelion's frown deepen, Maeglin paused. The words sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, for why would an ambitious man help a friend marry a beautiful princess if he stood any chance of wooing her himself? "But I see by your expression that I… that I have judged him too highly. He is not your friend, but your rival. His actions at the party must have provoked your jealousy."

A strange expression flickered across Ecthelion's face: something like amusement, quickly concealed. How dare he treat Maeglin's lapse in judgment as a joke? Angered, but unwilling to draw further attention to his mistake, Maeglin pressed on.

"But never mind him. I would speak of your situation. The apologies you have offered, I accept. Now I want you to apologize for forgetting your place so far as to court my cousin."

"Maeglin, I—"

"In addition, I order you never to speak to her again."

"Please listen to me. The hair you found— Never speak to Idril? What, not at all? Even if she speaks to me?"

"I want you to avoid her."

"In a city this size? With us both on the council?"

"You will manage, I am sure—or dare you defy me?"

Maeglin backed up his words with a challenging look. Ecthelion held it for a moment, then turned aside.

"Maeglin," he said softly. "Quite apart from the impracticality of it, your birth does not give you the right to give me orders. Remember, I swore allegiance to Turgon, not to you, or even your mother."

Evidently, he was going to be difficult about this. Torn between anger and a growing admiration, Maeglin decided to play his best card.

"That may be true," he said, "but even if I am not your liege lord, I am your liege lord's nephew, and consequently have much power in this city. You said we should speak bluntly, so let us do so. I love my fair cousin, and intend to marry her myself, your Noldorin customs be cursed. If you interfere, I will do everything in my power to cause you harm. But if you obey me, I have the power to reward you. With my patronage, and…" Maeglin took a deep breath. "The hand of my daughter in marriage. Not my first-born, naturally. One of the younger ones." The third, perhaps: he had not picked out her name yet.

"That… That is most generous of you, my prince. But I have no wish to marry an as-yet-unborn woman, even if she is your daughter."

"Would you rather I made this offer to Glorfindel, instead?"

Ecthelion gave another faint smile. Though he suppressed it as quickly as before, it stayed in his eyes as he said, "I have reason to suspect that he will feel the same way."

Maeglin could not let such ridicule pass. "I see my suggestion amuses you," he said.

"Well, perhaps a little. You see, I—"

"I suppose you find my plans and hopes as impractical as my orders?"

"I had not thought about it. I am amused because, as I keep trying to tell you, I am not romantically interested in Idril's daughter, or, indeed, in Idril herself, and—"

"What do you mean?" Faced with this shameless admission, Maeglin felt his reason flee, driven out by a dark, ear-pounding hate. "You intend to use her, to toy with her affections? You… you heartless spawn of Morgoth!" But such words felt laughably weak. Father had shown much more force even when reprimanding far less villainous servants. Maeglin's hand groped for the hilt of his sword; he drew.

The flames of the brazier flickered, their reflections sliding along the blade as it moved to point at Ecthelion's chest. Everything else was motionless—much as it had ever been—and yet the room had changed. It felt larger, too large to provide shelter.

"Maeglin." Ecthelion's eyes left the sword's tip and moved to meet Maeglin's own. He spoke slowly. "Be easy. I intend nothing of the sort. Indeed, I have no plan to marry Idril. This is a misunderstanding. My interests lie elsewhere."

His words sounded like lies, but his gaze was open, as it had not been back in his rooms. Maeglin wanted to believe him; he knew the sword was sharp and deadly, like all of Father's weapons.

"Where, then?"

"With Glorfindel. It was his hair you found, you know, just as I told you at first. We… we have a long-standing arrangement."

"You and Glorfindel?" Maeglin considered this. "I suppose you do have interests in common, such as fighting and singing about fighting, and so on, and you are of the same rank within the city. So yes, it seems plausible."

"Does it?"

In spite of the stupidity of such a question, Ecthelion still appeared sincere. Sincere, and pleasingly… apologetic? Concerned with Maeglin's opinion? Meanwhile, the more Maeglin contemplated the idea of such an arrangement, the more pleasing it seemed. What better way to protect Idril from upstart suitors than by pairing them together? Only one source of irritation remained.

"Why did you not tell me this earlier?" Maeglin asked. "I do not like it when people keep secrets from me."

"This is a secret we have kept from almost everyone. Indeed, you are the first person I have told without being questioned on the subject."

"I am? In that case, I forgive you." Maeglin lowered the sword and slid it back into its scabbard. "But why all the secrecy?"

Ecthelion stared at him dumbly. "Well, as you know, we are both male. An arrangement like ours goes against the customs of our people."

"I am not surprised. It is such a rational arrangement, and this city is anything but."

"You find it… rational?"

"Of course. Given the shortage of women, especially highborn women, among the citizens, it makes a great deal of sense for highborn men to turn to each other for companionship. It is a common solution among the Dwarves, who are permanently lacking females. A very logical race, the Dwarves."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Of course I am." These Noldor could never remember that Maeglin had experienced far more than their own narrow lives would allow. "Father and I visited the Dwarven lands frequently, and learned a great deal about their customs. We even met several such partnerships in the forges, and they tend to work together well, unhindered by distracting children." Or so Father had said. But Mother had said something else. "They do miss out on a large part of life, of course: the procreative urges, the bodily union with a woman, and other such experiences."

Ecthelion looked away. "Oh, I don't know about that."

"Well, of course you don't know about it. You wouldn't. I myself understand these matters only because Mother made a particular effort to explain them to me."

Now Ecthelion glanced back at Maeglin, his expression a little odd. "I don't think— Never mind. No doubt you are right, and we are missing something. But, well, it does not seem to be a problem."

This was good news. The stronger their partnership, the better. "So, you are content with your arrangement?"

"Yes. Though the secrecy weighs on us."

"Then you should abandon it. Make a public announcement." Something that would link them together in the eyes of the city, and make future pursuit of women much more problematic. "Perhaps even hold a ceremony, a wedding of sorts."

"Make a public spectacle of ourselves? A mockery of the sacred vows?" Ecthelion's mouth set in a line. "No."

"You expect people to react badly?" Given how the narrow-minded Gondolindrim treated the merest suggestion of marriage between cousins, he was almost certainly right. Well, all the better. Such a ceremony might make Maeglin's own plans seem soothingly conventional by comparison. Of course, the comparison would be all the more striking if blond Glorfindel could be persuaded to dress up as the bride. "I am sure it would not be too much of a problem. After all, you have my full support."

But should it be Glorfindel? Maeglin studied Ecthelion. Did he seem more, or less, manly than his partner? He actually paid attention to people, which was a womanly trait, but he also seemed to enjoy solitude, which was more like a man.

"I thank you for your support, truly," said Ecthelion, unaware that his manhood was under scrutiny. "It is particularly welcome," he continued, "since Salgant, who is, I believe, a follower of yours, has been causing us some trouble."

So Salgant had not been completely useless after all. "What sort of trouble?"

"He has composed an obscene song about us, and is now threatening to make it public."

"You mean he knows about your partnership?" Maeglin changed his mind. Salgant had been worse than useless: he had been duplicitous. "He has known about it long enough to write a whole song?"

"Judging by the quality of the lyrics, it cannot have taken him very long," said Ecthelion. "We are not quite sure when he found out, or how, but we do have a theory. We suspect him of having somehow obtained a draft of a Contest map; the victory of the Harp team would seem to confirm this. These drafts were kept at Glorfindel's house, together with his personal papers."

"So he found out while searching Glorfindel's house, and is now threatening you with exposure." Clearly, Salgant had used Maeglin's keys for his own ends. "But this is an outrage!"

"I am glad you think so. I see I was right to bring this matter before you."

For once, Ecthelion's eyes looked as the eyes of a man speaking to his prince should: warm, even admiring. Such emotions ought to be encouraged. Maeglin decided to aid him in dealing with the treacherous Salgant.

"Yes, your decision was a wise one, and for that I shall reward you—with my advice: I suggest you threaten to reveal all to my uncle Turgon. I know he takes a dim view of people going through his own belongings, and I believe he would be most displeased with anyone caught cheating at a contest such as the Games."

"We did think of that, but arrangements such as ours are yet another thing your uncle views with disapproval."

"I see." It was a complication—Maeglin's growing influence over Ecthelion would be worth less if the man lost Turgon's favour. But perhaps it was for the best. "In that case, I take it you want me to instruct Salgant to keep your secret. Very well, I will do so."

Ecthelion bowed slightly. "Thank you, my lord."

"However," continued Maeglin, "if I am to help you with your personal matters, I think it only fair that you help me with mine. I have told you that I intend to wed my cousin. Before I speak to Salgant, I would like to be sure that you will support me in this endeavour."

"You propose an exchange of favours." Ecthelion's eyes lost some of their warmth. He stood silent for a moment before saying, "Well, it is certainly true that I have no objection to the general idea of marriage between cousins, and I would be happy to try and persuade others to think similarly."

"That is a start, of course, but while you are at it you should also persuade them that Idril must marry someone of equal birth." Surely even the Gondolindrim would be able to put those two ideas together and see who was Idril's only logical match… no, better to be safe. "You might even mention me by name."

Ecthelion took another of his little thinking breaks—evidence of his slow-moving warrior's mind. "No, I cannot do that," he said at last. "It would be hypocrisy for me to suggest that Idril should not choose as she pleases."

"Choosing me would please her."

"Perhaps, but the point is that she has not chosen you."

"You do not know that, and besides, her feelings are my concern, not yours. Your task is to help me."

"I am trying to. Look, Maeglin, while I am aware that I am unqualified to give anyone advice on women, I can understand why Idril does not currently return your fee— Please stop reaching for your sword. We both know you have no intention of injuring an unarmed man. Just listen. If you love Idril as you claim, then surely you see many fine qualities in her."

"She is the finest woman I have ever—" Maeglin chased away an uncomfortable comparison. "The finest woman in this city. And in Middle-earth, no doubt. But I am her match: a descendant of the High King, and a brilliant smith."

"Yes, but you must remember that, to Idril, high-born ingenious smiths are nothing out of the ordinary. Her family is full of them. And most of them have accomplished much, for good or for ill, while you… You are very young."

"I am not!" Maeglin clenched his fists, to better keep them off his sword-hilt. "I am a man full grown, and I laugh at my kinsmen's so-called accomplishments. Their history is a chronicle of irrationality. I will outdo them all!"

He stood up straighter, as if to display the tasteful crown he would some day wear, and glared at Ecthelion, willing him to contradict his words. But Ecthelion was nodding.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, Maeglin, there is certainly room for improvement in your family's record. And you are gifted; I am sure you can do much for this city."

"For this city?"

"For our cause in Middle-earth, if you prefer, but I think Idril cares more for Gondolin itself. Let her see you sharing her concerns, striving to serve the city and its people just as she does. Shared labour and shared goals can create closeness, even affection. I am sure it is part of what draws together… well, those dwarves you mentioned, for a start."

"Nonsense." While Idril did love the city, she was obviously no male dwarf, and noble-born leaders serving their people were a peculiar idea at best. "Besides, I have offered to help her on several occasions, and she has always refused. Quite vehemently."

"I do not mean you should take over her responsibilities, but that you should find some way of using your own talents to the city's advantage. Something novel. Let her grow to respect you not for what you were born with, but for what you have accomplished, and in a century or two—"

"I will not wait that long!"

"Why not? Are you worried about other suitors? Idril does not seem to favour anyone she already knows, and she is unlikely to meet anyone new… except for the newly born, of course, but they will have a lot of catching up to do. Meanwhile, you will impress her."

Maeglin had to admit he liked the idea of an impressed Idril. When placing a new trinket in her chamber, he had often imagined that this new gift was the one that would brighten her bright eyes even further, and send her running to his room full of praise. But that had never worked, and perhaps Ecthelion was right in one thing: perhaps the gifts had been too small, perhaps Idril would have preferred gifts big enough for the whole city.

"All right. I will give this matter some thought," he said.

"Good. Now, shall we leave? I expect this tent is the last one standing. The men must be anxious to pack it up."

Maeglin agreed. When they stepped outside, they found that Ecthelion had been right: the nearby guards certainly looked anxious. One stepped forward to speak to his captain.

"My lord, I would like to report that Lord Salgant is now in the refreshment area. He has done nothing untoward so far, but we are keeping a close eye on all the furniture."

Ecthelion thanked him, cast a quick glance at Maeglin, and strode off towards the tables. Maeglin followed. At first, he considered Ecthelion's suggestion in silence, but thinking about taking a follower's advice made the situation feel unbalanced. He decided to respond in kind.

"I will help you with Salgant for now," he said, "but in the long term my advice to you would be to stop caring what the peasants think. And to keep your partnership with Glorfindel strong. Mother always said," he added, "that if something your spouse does bothers you, it is important to express this, instead of locking yourself in a forge. I think Father agreed, on the whole. He only went in there to think things over and make sure he got all the details of his complaint right. So if Glorfindel does something annoying, like, for example, spending a whole evening escorting a woman, you should complain about this at length."

"That is very interesting," said Ecthelion. "I mean, I do see how the opposite approach might cause problems… Oh, curse it."

His outburst had been prompted by the sight that greeted them when they reached their destination: the area was still as crowded as before, but this time Salgant was clearly visible. He stood atop a table, toying with his harp and exchanging witticisms with the people milling around his perch. When someone yelled for a song, he pulled in his stomach and swept a satisfied eye over the crowd. He spotted the newcomers almost at once.

"Ah! Ecthelion! And you, my prince! Come join me!" He waved his free hand, beckoning them closer. At his gesture, the crowd parted to let them through. When they reached the table, he continued. "I am about to perform my latest composition, a tale of the intimate bonds that can form between brothers-in-arms. I believe that you, Ecthelion, have a fondness for such songs. Perhaps you would care to add mine to your drunken repertoire?"

"Surely you are too modest, Salgant," said Ecthelion. "Many of your songs are quite bearable even to a sober ear."

Maeglin knew he should intervene as promised, but Salgant's infuriated expression amused him far too much. He watched the harpist struggle for a response.

"Excuse me!"

The crowd parted again, this time to let through Idril, who looked more beautiful than ever, and Glorfindel, who looked the same as usual, so that Maeglin had to remind himself that he was not supposed to hate him anymore. This task grew easier when Glorfindel left Idril's side to approach the table.

"Come on, Salgant," he said quietly, "this is hardly the place."

"What do you mean?" asked Salgant with a smirk, his voice loud enough to be heard by the nearby spectators. "You heard the people: they demand a song."

"Perhaps," said Maeglin, equally loudly, "but Glorfindel is right. You do your men an injustice by using their victory to draw attention to yourself, and your compositions. If you must sing, sing about the Contest."

"My new composition does concern the Contest's organizers."

"Yes, but it is a satire, is it not? No, you should praise them, or the winning team—or, better yet," he added, inspired, "praise the Contest's fair patroness."

"How? I hope my lady will forgive me," said Salgant, bowing to Idril, "but I know no suitable songs."

Ridiculous excuse. "I know many," said Maeglin. "I would be happy to teach you one."

Idril stepped closer. "Oh, please, Maeglin," she whispered, "not one of your poems."

"Your modesty becomes you, fair cousin, but you heard Salgant—"

"I know!" said Glorfindel. "How about that hair of sunshine song—everyone knows it, it suits Idril well, and people seem to like it. Right, Ecthelion?"

"It is certainly catchy," said Ecthelion evenly.

"Yes," said Idril. "I think it is an excellent suggestion."

Her wish was Maeglin's command. "In that case, we must have it. Salgant!"

Salgant responded with a bow and a smile that lost its obvious falsity only when he began to sing. Maeglin did not bother listening to the performance. He was too busy watching Idril and trying to determine how to create a gift big enough for a city. One thing was certain: he would need a lot of ore.

When the clapping died down, he remembered his promise to Ecthelion. "I suppose that was pleasant enough," he told Salgant. "Now come, let us ride back to the city together."

"Already?" asked Salgant. "But the celebrations—"

"Yes, already, if my fair cousin will excuse me. I have many matters to attend to."

"In that case, of course you must go," said Idril. She looked pleased; had Maeglin's diligence impressed her already? He straightened his cloak, trying to look even more busy and important.

"However," he said, "I should like permission to call on you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Maeglin, the end of the Games brings much work. I doubt I shall have the time."

"Not even to let me say goodbye?"

"Goodbye?" Idril's eyes were lovely when they widened like that. "Are you thinking of leaving Gondolin, as your mother once did? I doubt that Father—"

"No, of course not. I know my destiny lies here. But I have been thinking—for some time now—about how I might best… how I might best serve this city. I am a master smith, of course, but we have many smiths: in truth, more than we have work for at the moment. No, what the city needs is more ore."

"That is true," said Ecthelion. "We need weapons. And plumbing fixtures."

"You plan to go prospecting for ore?" Idril asked.

"Who better than me? I know all the secrets of the Dwarves."

Idril met Maeglin's gaze with smiling eyes, as she had not done since the day of his arrival. "That seems like an excellent idea. Come around noon, and I shall give you some lembas baked by my own hand. A large supply, for the Encircling Mountains are vast. What is more… Glorfindel." She turned to her left, graceful and eager, like a dancer beginning a favourite step. "Why don't you join us, and bring your maps? Maeglin might find them useful. And you too, Ecthelion: you could tell us what metals you think are most needed."

Maeglin smiled at her joy. Yes, Ecthelion's advice seemed to be sound. He exchanged a final round of farewells, and led Salgant away, towards the horses.

———

"Well, then," said Maeglin when they reached the road to the city, a once-insignificant path recently widened by many hooves and wheels. "I believe you were preparing a report for me."

"Yes, my prince." Though usually an excellent rider, Salgant shifted on his mount as if uncomfortable. "I was. But I found nothing interesting, other than the map I sent you."

"You mean the map you treacherously used to secure your men's victory?"

"No! No, I never did that. My men came up with their own strategy. They often do, you know. Although I am told that they were helped by the fact that the teams nearest to them spent the first few hours luring each other into pits, or ambushes, or something of the sort, thus wasting valuable time and—"

"Stop babbling!" Maeglin should never have trusted the men of the Mole to execute his brilliant plan correctly. Oh well, a few months in his new mines should teach them to dig faster. "I do not believe you, anyway. I know you have been withholding information. And hiding from me, most likely, first in the city and now in the peasants' tents."

"What do you mean, my prince?"

"I have spoken to Ecthelion. I know you have been blackmailing him behind my back, even as I sought a way to keep him away from Idril."

"Well, not exactly." Salgant bent forward to fiddle with the strap holding his harp. "Strictly speaking, I have been blackmailing Glorfindel—"

"Same thing. You came across the perfect means of tying up two of Idril's unworthy suitors, and you sought to destroy it. I am most displeased."

Salgant sat up. "My prince! You cannot mean you want their unnatural relationship to continue. It is revolting and immoral, grossly immoral. Surely you must see that? Or…" He grimaced as if nauseated, and straightened further. "My prince, I must report that my investigations led me to discover that you have been withholding information as well. About your… designs on your cousin."

His speech was careful, but his sickened expression made his feelings plain. Maeglin suppressed the urge to slap him by reminding himself of how useful this ignorant Noldorin buffoon could be. And how entertaining, with his predictable nervousness.

"So, my plans upset you, do they?" he asked instead. "Good thing they are none of your business. But as for your behaviour… I am sure that my uncle would be interested to hear that you have been searching through people's houses, and even stealing War Games information. Using my personal keys, no less. Now that is truly revolting and immoral, as I am sure he will agree."

Salgant reeled slightly, and grasped at his horse's mane. "But… but my prince, you told me to do as much yourself!"

"When?"

"The day we spoke of Ecthelion! And if you take this matter before the King, I will… I will be forced to admit that you gave me those very keys!"

"And I will be forced to admit that I gave them to you so you could lock up my forge. Is that not what I asked you to do?"

Salgant made a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob.

"Now stop this nonsense and listen," Maeglin continued. "I need you to end this foul blackmail, and put your new song out of your mind. In fact, you should write a different song: one praising relationships such as Ecthelion's."

"Oh no, I could not!"

"Do not worry, I can help you with the lyrics." Maeglin thought for a moment. "How about…"

_'Tis right for men to marry men,  
For in this city's hidden den  
Maids are outnumbered six to ten  
Leaving some young men heartbro-ken._

"And so on. I am not sure about the six to ten. Three to five would be simpler, of course, but it does not rhyme. But perhaps you can solve that problem?"

"I probably could," said Salgant dully. "If I might make a small comment, however… My prince, why are you sure that forming such unconventional relationships will keep men away from your cousin?"

"What do you mean? That is how relationships work: they tie people together."

"Among people of virtue, but I have my doubts about those who lead unnatural lives."

"The Dwarves seem to—" No, Salgant did not deserve to benefit from Maeglin's Dwarf-lore. "Look, Ecthelion told me as much, and I could tell he was sincere."

"He was wrong, though. Even his own… friend, Glorfindel, has not forsworn women. In fact, only this morning, he was seen climbing down from your fair cousin's balcony by several witnesses."

"He… what?" Maeglin stared at Salgant, half-blinded with rage—on his own behalf, and Idril's, and Ecthelion's—and saw that Salgant, too, seemed to be telling the truth. Besides, the news made some sense: it explained Glorfindel's recent behaviour. "I expect he still sees himself as one unwed. Well, we shall have to remedy that."

"How, my prince?"

"I have changed my mind. The city must know about his arrangement with Ecthelion—the king must know."

"So, my song—"

"Forget your song! In fact, forget this whole matter. I shall inform him myself, in the best possible way."

Maeglin urged his horse forward, ahead of Salgant's. Yes, he would talk to his uncle. It would mean breaking his promise to Ecthelion, but then Ecthelion did not know all the facts. No doubt he would be grateful, in the end.

Reassured, Maeglin turned his mind to more interesting topics: Idril's future gifts. Salgant's talk of keys had given him a new idea. Most of the doors in Gondolin were just as pathetic as Glorfindel's, and as easy to unlock or even destroy. The same was true of the city's gates—and that was something Maeglin could fix. Idril cared about the city's security, did she not? Surely she would feel better if the city were locked tight as a safe-box. And then, gates were much harder to ignore than a poem or a pair of shoes. Bigger, for one, and fixed in place, usually somewhere public and highly visible. Idril's bedroom window, for example, faced the entrance of the Valley, with its pathetic collection of over-decorated, shoddy doorways.

Maeglin would change that, at least.

———  
—  
———

Author's notes:

0. As usual, feedback is encouraged, especially clever, critical feedback. And thanks to: Maggie, Eveiya, Dragonlady, Maike, Dagmar, AE, and Dwimordene for all the comments!

1. Maeglin's anthropological observations on the Dwarves are not, of course, canonical, but it is true that Dwarven females were scarce and often uninclined to marriage, so who knows?

2. Glorfindel's name means "golden hair," where "golden" means "golden light" rather than metal. "Sunshine hair," I suppose. So the song really does seem to suit him better than it suits Idril…

3. One of Maeglin's main accomplishments as a Lord of Gondolin was founding the mine of Anghabar, and then using the ore to forge items such as the Great Gate that Ecthelion would later guard. We are not told whether Idril was impressed by this accomplishment, but it does not sound like it.

4. Ecthelion was right about one thing, though: Maeglin had nothing to fear from Idril's Gondolinian suitors.

5. Incidentally, this is the second-last chapter…


	8. Chapter 8

A note: it has been a really long time since I last updated this story, and I fear that readers might have forgotten what is going on. A summary of previous chapters is, as always, available from my webpage, which can be reached via my profile.

**Chapter Eight**

"I still find it hard to believe," said Glorfindel.

"I know," said Ecthelion. "I do not entirely trust Maeglin, either, even if he sounded both confident and sincere."

"Well, we both know that he perceives the world in his own unique way, so he could easily be mistaken. There was certainly nothing about such things in the Marital Section of the healers' library-but then I saw nothing there about the Dwarves at all. I suppose I will have to go to the Laws and Customs, Cultural Variations Thereof section in the scholars' one."

"Wait-you were talking about seeking out erotic Dwarven scrolls?" Ecthelion felt disoriented in a very familiar way. Were the two of them forever doomed to misinterpret each other's words? "But why would you want to? I doubt they will prove helpful: Dwarves are short-limbed, are they not?"

"Ecthelion, you have no imagination. At least not while clothed, and in public. But I did not necessarily mean erotica, just any confirmation of Maeglin's claim. Do you not find it... well, charming?"

Glorfindel did, indeed, look charmed as he smiled broadly, his eyes exceptionally bright. Ecthelion forced himself to look away, towards the group of guards and horses gathered outside the stables. Amid all the confusion of their party's return to the city, a moment of private conversation seemed safe enough even out in the open, but standing about gazing into each other's eyes would never do. He decided to nudge the conversation towards more serious topics.

"You know, it is possible that you will not have to depend on a theoretical essay to satisfy your curiosity," he said. "If Turgon throws us out of the city, we can go and ask the Dwarves in person."

"He will not throw us out," said Glorfindel. "This mess will resolve itself, I am sure: you saw how deftly Maeglin handled Salgant. Just as you must have handled Maeglin. You seem to have a lot of influence over him, though I suppose that is hardly surprising: he probably admires you greatly. Good thing I know where his real interests lie," he added, his smile losing some of its sincerity.

Ecthelion ignored this last bit of nonsense. "As I was saying, I am not sure I trust Maeglin, not in the long term. He can be quite volatile. I suppose he gets it from his mo-- Well, both his parents, really."

"So you believe that the only thing you gained us by speaking to him was time?"

"Exactly: time to decide upon the best way to tell the people who matter... If you are still amenable to doing so?"

"Yes, yes." Glorfindel nodded impatiently. "Of course! I find the idea so appealing that I contemplated it all the way from the foothills-when I was not thinking about the Dwarves, that is. In the end, I decided that the best plan would be to begin by telling Idril... who, I feel compelled to remind you," he said with a look as pointed as a spear, "is like a sister to me."

It was such a relief to hear this, and to believe it, that Ecthelion felt light-headed and light-hearted both. "Like a sister? Are you sure?" he could not resist asking. "She is your cousin, and a Finwian, so it would make more sense if--"

"Once removed does not count for Finwian cousin purposes. But, please, hear me out. The people we must tell include those who are close to us, and those who are of high rank, and so might feel they deserve to know. Well, Idril is both, and what is more she is wise and kind, and thus inclined to be sympathetic."

"I believe you are right about that. When we spoke at the opening ceremony, she- Well. I did not quite realize it at the time, but she seemed to imply that I should be nice to you, and that you have, well, feelings for me. "

"See? She really is wise. Because you definitely should," said Glorfindel, "and, yes, I do." He raised his right eyebrow in a suggestive manner, but, as usual, failed to keep the left from slanting upwards as well. Ecthelion wanted to smile in response, so he turned towards the stables again, just in time to see the last horse disappear inside.

"So, Idril might help us," he said coolly. "We could tell her before tomorrow's meeting."

"That would be perfect. She asked me to come an hour early, anyway, in case Maeglin does."

"I will see you there an hour before noon, then."

This was it: the end of their important discussion. Well-timed, too, since the moment to inspect and dismiss the men grew near. And yet, tired as they both were, Ecthelion did not feel ready to say good night. "I fear," he said instead, "that Salgant's spies might be watching us still." Glorfindel's grin faded. "That is true. However, given our plan, and the imminent danger we discussed earlier, I believe."

"Yes, spies are certainly a problem," continued Ecthelion. "So much so that when I get home, I intend to search the place thoroughly, throwing out any I happen to find." He permitted himself a quick smile. "Perhaps you would like to help?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how ridiculous they sounded-but then he realized it hardly mattered. Still, he could not blame Glorfindel for hesitating before finally asking, "Your house?"

"You think the risk too great? But did you not just say--"

"No, no, no," said Glorfindel with increasing firmness. "I approve of your idea. I just meant that... my house is closer, both to here and to the palace."

"True. Besides, nobody could resist an invitation to explore the secret crannies of your quarters. Who knows what we may find: a long-forgotten shirt of mine? That dagger Egalmoth lent you six years ago? Dinner? The Silmarils?"

But Glorfindel had stopped listening. "You must know, Ecthelion, that no specific invitation is required," he said, raising one and a half eyebrows again. "No, indeed, you can explore my secret cra- Wait, wait. That sounds terrible. But I am sure I can think of a phrasing that is clever, yet tasteful... Give me a moment."

"Take your time," said Ecthelion without much hope, and turned towards the edge of the square, where the Games volunteers were gathering, as expected. What he had not expected was the unfamiliar man in Palace livery who had joined them. A messenger! Ecthelion put on his most official expression before calling him forward. It must have worked, perhaps a little too well: the man looked worried as he handed over twin notes. "From Prince Maeglin, my lords," he said with a deep bow.

The lower four fifths of Ecthelion's note were taken up by a lengthy, elaborate signature written in a practiced script that reminded him of wrought iron. Scrawled across the top were the words, "Call on me in my private forge immediately upon your return."

"Mine is the same," said Glorfindel over his shoulder. "Though the punctuation is even more emphatic. But Eru, first Maeglin's visit to your room, then that paint-filled pit, and now this... it is almost as if we were doomed to have our plans ruined by Moles. Let us hope this audience with our Prince ends quickly."

-

A glimpse of Maeglin's forge was enough to prove that he truly intended to depart. While its fires had been extinguished, darkening the gloomy chamber even further, the shadows could not conceal a disorder that spoke of hasty packing. As Ecthelion's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to identify the shapes cluttering the workbenches and the floor: strange tools, metal nuggets, and even an anvil wrapped up with rope. One particularly large and dramatic shape resolved itself into the black-cowled, black-gloved, yet pale-faced figure of Maeglin.

"Oh, it is you two," he said. "Finally."

"Good evening, Lord Maeglin," said Ecthelion. This attempt to teach manners by example proved vain, however, since Maeglin ignored the greeting, and even Ecthelion himself. Instead, he turned towards Glorfindel.

"I wish to plan my journey," he announced. "Thus, I need to see your maps of the Valley."

"And see them you shall." Glorfindel pushed his hair away from his face and squinted in Maeglin's general direction. "I am planning to bring them to--"

"No, no, that will not do. How can I discuss them insightfully without proper preparation? You must show them to me tonight."

Ecthelion did not even try to meet Glorfindel's eye. There was no choice to be made here: all three of them knew this request-this order-had to be obeyed. Still, Glorfindel took his time before coldly saying, "All right then."

"And how am I to help prepare?" asked Ecthelion before Maeglin could overreact.

"You? Oh, I do not need your help today," said Maeglin. "No, I summoned you here only because I have a gift for you." He pointed to a small, glittering item lying on one of the benches.

"A gift for Ecthelion?" Glorfindel's voice sounded even colder than before. "What is it?"

Ecthelion approached the bench, carefully stepping over several obstacles, and picked up the item, which proved to be a golden locket etched with the geometric designs Maeglin favoured. He pressed the catch; it sprang open. Inside, upon a lining of dark satin, lay a thin ring woven out of several bright yellow strands.

"It seems to be," he told Glorfindel, "a locket containing some of your hair."

"Truly?" A metal object rolled across the floor as Glorfindel hurried to join him. "Well. So it is. Where did-- Was this your idea"

"Of course not."

"What do you mean, of course not? Are you not attached to my hair?"

"I suppose so, but only while it is attached to you."

As it was, the twisted, orphaned hairs reminded Ecthelion of a recent conversation about imminent dangers. He shut the locket and weighed it in his hand.

"I forged it myself, you know," said Maeglin. "Of course, you two should really wear golden rings, which would make your status apparent to all the maidens, but this will have to do for now. I intend to make another one later, and send it back with my letters; you can fill it with hair yourselves. Now hurry up, Ecthelion, and put it on."

As Ecthelion slipped the locket's chain over his head, his fingers encountered another's: Glorfindel had reached out to touch one of his threatened braids. He let the chain fall into place, and allowed his hand to linger, all too aware that this was likely the only physical contact they would have tonight.

"Is this a Dwarven custom, then?" asked Glorfindel. "Carrying each other's hair around? Do they use that strange hair they grow on their faces?"

"What? No, it was my own idea," said Maeglin. "I know you warriors do not really understand such things, but try to view it as a symbolic reminder of your partnership."

"I see. In that case, perhaps I could fill mine with sword grease rather than hair? It would be much more practical."

Ecthelion considered giving Glorfindel hand a punishingly painful squeeze, but decided that such a gesture might be interpreted as encouragement-probably at least half-correctly. "Please excuse Glorfindel and his jokes, Maeglin," he said instead. "He certainly did not mean to criticize your thoughtful and meaningful gift, for which we are both very grateful."

"You are welcome. And do not worry, Ecthelion," added Maeglin with splendid condescension. "I understand that your partner is obsessed with weaponry, but I intend to explain the importance of other matters to him tonight. Come, then, Glorfindel. Take me to your maps."

Glorfindel's fingers slid down Ecthelion's arm, and then he was gone, picking his way across the dangerous floor.

Left with no other options, Ecthelion went home. The walk calmed him, perhaps too much: he soon found himself yawning, stumbling a little, and so realizing that Glorfindel's presence had made him feel unnaturally awake. Well, perhaps this frustrating separation would have one good effect: it might allow him to sleep peacefully, as he had not done for days, and so better prepare him for the challenges ahead.

Unfortunately, the first challenge appeared before he could sleep, as soon as he reached his apartment. The bed, which had stood against the western wall for centuries, now held a diagonal position in the center of the room. Had Salgant moved it during his dishonourable search? At a cursory glance, nothing else had been disturbed. Could the crooked bed be a deliberate message, an indication of what Salgant thought of the activities that took place in it?

Ecthelion could not bring himself to care. He slid rugs under the bed's legs, so as not to scratch the wooden floor, and pushed it back into place. Soon after, he lay on his familiar lumpy mattress, the scene of so much sleeplessness-both pleasant and unpleasant, depending on whether he was being visited by Glorfindel, or by dark thoughts. This time, sleep came easily. Even if they were to be separated, even if the pleasant sleeplessness were to become a mere memory, he would never forget that crippled Orc.

-

The dawn light woke Ecthelion as always, its rays sliding across his bedsheets like strands of golden hair, and he rose feeling so cheerful that he did not even cringe at this too-obvious simile. He busied himself with work until it was almost time to head for the Palace, then left, intending to arrive outside Idril's audience chamber a little early. His hopes were rewarded: Glorfindel had had the same idea."Ecthelion!" he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, actually," said Ecthelion. He wondered at the meaninglessness of this question until he saw the shadows under Glorfindel's eyes. "I take it you did not?"

"Oh Eru, no." Glorfindel slumped down onto a bench and ran a hand over his face. "Maeglin kept me up all night, talking about maps and Dwarves until I am not sure I can still tell them apart. And also about you, but fortunately I am not likely to confuse you with either." He glanced up at Ecthelion.

"Hmm." Ecthelion joined him, though he knew that sitting so close, all too aware of the impropriety of touching, would only cause frustration. "I had been thinking that you should do the talking today, given that Idril is like a sister to you, but after that comment I am not sure you are coherent enough."

"I was only joking." Glorfindel straightened, edging a little closer. "I am fine, really."

"Are you sure? Did you remember to bring your Dwarves?"

Glorfindel made a sound that was half a groan and half a laugh, and raised his hand to touch Ecthelion's shoulder. Then, clearly recollecting himself, he pulled it away-and punched Ecthelion there instead. "Do not steal my jokes," he said.

Ecthelion's arm burned; he felt the thrill of the practice grounds. He gave in to it, and avenged himself with an elbow, twisting away so Glorfindel's retaliatory blow barely touched him. At that point, the only reasonable option was to close the distance until there was no room for further strikes, and concentrate on shoving his opponent off the bench. He made good progress: while Glorfindel's strategy of kicking at his shins was certainly a distraction, it also destabilized him and made him easier to push.

"My lords?" asked a female voice.

Ecthelion spat out a strand of Glorfindel's hair and looked up at one of Idril's ladies. How could they have failed to notice her approach? And what would she think of them now that she had seen them acting like thirty-year-olds-or worse, like a roughhousing courting couple? He sat up and tried to look dignified, while, beside him, Glorfindel muttered something about high post-Games spirits.

"Of course." The lady's expression was disturbingly neutral. "Now, if you are ready, the princess would like to see you."

Ecthelion avoided her eyes as he stepped through the door. Inside, Idril rose up from behind a large table covered with books arms outstretched in greeting. "Good morning, Glorfindel. And Ecthelion. Tell me, was it your influence that led Maeglin to his latest decision? If so, I am most grateful."

"I spoke to Maeglin, yes," said Ecthelion. "But he was the one who decided that finding more ore would be best for the city."

"It would indeed." Idril smiled tightly. "For the city, and for everyone in it. Even for the Games, perhaps: I now suspect that Maeglin is the one behind the confusion with the maps. After all, he has already proven himself unable to respect the privacy of my bedroom."

"I do not doubt he is capable of such a thing," said Glorfindel. "But we know that it was Salgant. And speaking of Salgant... I want to tell you more about his recent activities, but there is something you need to hear beforehand. Something that concerns Ecthelion and me."

"Really? What is it?"

Glorfindel glanced at Ecthelion, seeking confirmation, before turning to face Idril. "Cousin," he said then, "you have always been a friend to us. So I hope you will hear this news with a friend's sympathy. Ecthelion and I... are lovers."

"Oh! But no, surely-" Idril raised her hand to her mouth. "You must forgive my astonishment; it is just that the three of us have spent so much time together, and I always thought..." Her gaze settled on Ecthelion with an almost accusatory curiosity. "Of course, I can certainly understand that prudence would lead you to keep such a matter private, and yet... Surely romantic feelings cannot be concealed completely? Not from attentive observers."

Well, she was certainly an attentive observer, at that moment at least, and Ecthelion could not fault her motive: concern for Glorfindel's emotional wellbeing. How could he reassure her? Give a physical demonstration of his feelings? The embarrassment in the waiting room had robbed the idea of its appeal. He could, of course, say that Glorfindel was beautiful and good, but would a declaration of such widely known facts really count as romantic? Although, if it did not, what did?

Perhaps Idril's concern was justified, then: perhaps his attitude was sadly inadequate. He glanced over at Glorfindel, and felt relieved to see him looking not disappointed, but amused.

"Come on, Idril," said Glorfindel, "You must remember that different people show emotion differently. Ecthelion is rather reserved, especially in public, but I assure you that I do not find him cold. Besides, he does make some affectionate gestures worthy of a romantic tale. For example, he writes me songs. And he unobtrusively helps me with my work when I am overwhelmed. And..." his smile widened, "he wears a locket with my hair in it."

"He does? Really?" Idril peered at Ecthelion's neck until she spotted the chain he had forgotten to remove. "Ooh, that is sweet."

"Yes, it is," said Glorfindel. "Meanwhile, all I ever do in the name of love is let him win sometimes when we spar."

While Ecthelion appreciated being rescued from an awkward situation, he had not enjoyed being cooed over like an adorable puppy, and this was really going too far. Especially considering that he'd definitely been winning, out on that bench. "Yes, Glorfindel is very generous that way," he told Idril. "In fact, he lets me win far more than half the time."

"What?" asked Glorfindel. "How do you fig- But never mind. We will resolve this later, I hope. For now, there are a few other, related matters we should discuss. Such as Salgant, and Lord Turgon."

"Father?" asked Idril, somber again. "Oh no! Has he found out about you two?"

"Not yet, but we believe that he might, soon, and from an unsympathetic source. We have been thinking about informing him ourselves, but we are unsure as to--"

"No, please do not!" said Idril. "Father prefers to ignore malicious gossip, but he could not ignore a direct admission. And the issue of romance among men weighs heavily on his mind, both because he believes that Manwe and Varda disapprove of all unions other than marriage, and because he despises all those songs about my uncle Fingon and Maedhros Feanorion... Songs that seem to have given him a rather odd idea of what two male lovers might get up to."

This made perfect sense to Ecthelion, who had found inspiration in those songs himself. Turgon, a widower, would understand how compelling acts of the flesh could be-while his unmarried daughter might not. But a daughter was, at least, likely to understand her father.

"You believe, then," he asked Idril, "that your father would punish us for something we do off-duty."

"Not explicitly, no: he would see that as unjust. But I do believe that he would worry about your moral fiber, and your influence on your people, and then he might lose faith in you, which could be disastrous to our shared cause of defending the city. No, no question about it: you will have to continue being discreet."

"We can do so, of course," said Glorfindel. "But what if he finds out, and asks us a direct question?"

"Oh, Glorfindel." Idril looked at him fondly. "Then you must lie, of course."

Glorfindel frowned. "Lying to our lord. I do not like it. What do you think, Ecthelion?"

Ecthelion's mind was full of conflicting duties, leavened with a general dislike of politics. "Well..." he began, but before he could formulate his thoughts the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang.

Turgon strode into the room, closely followed by Maeglin. Neither one looked happy.

Idril reacted first, with a diplomat's reflexes. "Father!" she said winningly. "Good morning. This is a rare pleasure."

"Good morning, all," said Turgon. "Idril, your cousin has just informed me about a rather serious matter, one I would like to discuss with you. And with the two of you, as well," he said to Ecthelion and Glorfindel, "since it concerns you both."

"So you wish to speak to all three of us?" asked Idril. "About the Games, I presume?"

Ecthelion could not tell whether she meant this, or whether, like himself, she suspected the worst. And yet, it was hard to believe that Maeglin would have betrayed them so quickly: the boy looked neither remorseful nor defensive, and he met Ecthelion's eyes full on, nodding as if in reassurance.

"The Games?" asked Turgon. "No, nothing to do with that. Unless... I have heard about some irregularities in the way this last  
contest has been run. Perhaps the two things are related."

"They are not, Uncle," said Maeglin, "According to my investigations, the mix-up at the Games was just one of Salgant's pranks."

"I see." Turgon raised his eyebrows a short, dignified distance. "You know, Maeglin, it is good to see you finally taking such an interest in the daily affairs of the city. Feel free to deal with the culprits responsible for this minor issue. But as for that other, more serious, rumour... Ecthelion, Glorfindel." He turned to face them, tilting his head back so that he seemed to be regarding them from a distance greater even than that granted him by his exceptional height. "Is it, or is it not true, that you have been indulging in the Feanorian Vice?"

"The Feanorian Vice?" Ecthelion felt a surge of relief-after all, he was not in the habit of attacking his kin, or even of threatening them-but it faded when he recalled which of the stories about Maedhros, that prominent Feanorian, had distressed his lord the most. Still, to be sure, he asked, "Which one?"

"The one that- Well, some people call it the Telerin Taint."

"Do they?" asked Maeglin. "I disapprove of this Noldorin tendency to blame things on the Teleri. I think the correct, neutral term is the Dwarven Custom."

"Neutral, indeed. Too neutral for my liking," said Turgon. "However, we can avoid singling out any race by calling it simply Unnatural Desire."

"I feel," said Idril, "that this discussion of terminology is distracting us from the real issue. Which to me seems to be that neither Glorfindel nor Ecthelion would have done anything to dishonour the posts they hold. Is that not right?" She smiled encouragingly.

Ecthelion followed her gaze towards Glorfindel, expecting to find him eager to defend their shared honour, but instead was shocked by his uncertain, tormented expression. Shocked, and yet pleased that Glorfindel was not following Idril's lead-and then dismayed by the pettiness that led him to feel such pleasure. But all these shifting emotions were routine, superficial; somewhere beneath them, he felt a deep-seated tension, as if awaiting a decisive battle. His heart raced.

Well, he had promised to fight for what they shared.

"I see," said Turgon, "that you two finally understand my question. Now, answer it."

The distaste betrayed by his down-turned mouth was entirely understandable, of course-but this was one battle where Ecthelion had to fight against, not beside, his lord. He exhaled deliberately, to slow his heart rate. Then, like an archer taking aim, he waited for the silence between beats before saying, "Yes."

There was a moment of silence. Then Idril said, "Do you mean that yes, you have done nothing to disho--"

"I mean," Ecthelion told Turgon, "that yes, the rumour is true. However," he continued, "I do not believe that this should be more important than someone cheating at a contest. It is not even as if we have been lying to you about it," he added with a glance at Idril.

"You were concealing it, though," said Turgon. "And so lying by omission, at least."

"We were keeping it private. Perhaps we should have informed you, my lord, but aren't such personal affairs below the attention of a king? We did tell those we are close to. Lady Idril knows."

"As do I," said Maeglin. "Obviously."

Turgon ignored him. "While I agree that this sort of failing should be kept from the general public, who look to their leaders for moral guidance," he said, "I want to remind you that no affair is below the attention of a king if it affects the running of his realm."

"I do not believe that our involvement has done so," said Ecthelion. "At least, I certainly do not believe that it has led us to neglect our work. Duty is far more important to us than our personal affairs; on that I give you my word, my king."

"You speak that oath lightly-another Feanorian vice." A frown distorted Turgon's composed face. "And yet, as your liege, I feel obliged to help you keep it. The best way to do so would surely be to free you from temptation. There is much work to be done outside the city: you already spend time at the gates, but there are the hill patrols, and the mines... Then, of course, there are the realms outside, which would surely welcome the aid of an enthusiastic and skilled warrior such as one of you."

"Father." Idril stepped closer, so she could touch his arm. "You must do what you think is best, of course, but please remember how useful Ecthelion and Glorfindel are to us, here in the city. Also, they are both very popular. If you send one of them away, or separate them, people will notice, and wonder; some may hit upon the truth, and even take their side. Ecthelion in particular has many followers who identify themselves as Telerin, and who do not always respect Noldorin laws or leaders as much as we would like them to. As for Glorfindel... he is a kinsman, and I would be very sorry to lose his company." She looked up at Turgon pleadingly.

His face softened. "Idril... You speak wisely. The measures I mentioned are rather extreme-and may prove unnecessary, if my captains find they do not need them. So..." He turned back towards Ecthelion, and said coldly, "I will let you stay... As long as you put an end to your shameful involvement at once."

This was the choice Ecthelion had dreaded, and yet hearing it caused him no great distress. His earlier tension had disappeared; he now felt as if he were filled with a light bright enough to blind him even to his inner doubts, as he sometimes felt in bed, or when caught up in combat.

"I will gladly make another promise, to do just that," he said, "once I understand how our involvement has hurt the city. Have you been displeased with our performance, my lord?"

Turgon frowned again. "I admit that your devotion to your various duties has been admirable, historically speaking. However, now that I think about it, things seem to have been running less smoothly recently, since my sister's re- Since Maeglin's arrival. There have been several small signs... The problems with this year's Games might be such a sign-an indirect one. I suspect your involvement is to blame."

The accusation rankled, especially since Ecthelion could see all too clearly how Turgon's judgment had been affected by his own personal affairs: by his feelings about the Feanorians, and their influence on his brother. Unfortunately, pointing out this irony could only hurt his cause; fortunately, there existed a much simpler and better response.

"Our involvement," he said, "began before your nephew was even born."

Turgon stared, taken aback; and so did Idril. Maeglin looked vaguely insulted. Glorfindel smiled.

"It is true, my lord," he said. "And as for our devotion to duty, well, I believe that, in seeking to be worthy of--"

"Right," said Ecthelion. Glorfindel's theories of love could only annoy their lord, especially if he brought up Maedhros and Fingon, as was his habit. "Lord Turgon, surely you recall that you have, over these last few dozens of years, complimented us both on our discipline and efficiency."

Turgon kept staring. Ecthelion suppressed the desire to say more, and concentrated on looking disciplined and efficient.

"You know," said Turgon at last, "I do believe you are right. You are... useful, as Idril said. But this failing of yours..." He grimaced. "I suggest that you find the strength to overcome it. I will not insist that you do so at once; I will, however, insist that you behave-that you keep behaving-in a way that will make it impossible to guess whether you have succeeded. Although, of course," he added less harshly, "it will be obvious if you choose to wed, as you should. Children are a joy you do not want to miss."

"But, Uncle," said Maeglin, "Even if they do wed, as I have been suggesting all along, Ecthelion and Glorfindel will not be able to have children."

"What?"

"I am confident about this. Of course, the Dwarves I have mentioned sometimes adopt orph--"

"Maeglin," said Turgon, "be silent. I meant if they wed women, of course. What you speak of is a depravity, and I never want to hear another word on this subject. From anyone. I hope this is understood?" He looked around the room before focusing on Ecthelion and Glorfindel again. "Now leave, both of you."

His cold voice suggested that, even if he had decided not to order his errant captains out of the city, he was glad enough to order them out of his presence. Glorfindel laid his maps on the table, bowed, and left; Ecthelion followed. They did not look at each other until they stood, again, in the empty waiting room.

Glorfindel's eyes seemed a bit unfocused. "Ecthelion," he said breathlessly. "Ecthelion, you were magnificent. Whenever you annoy me in the future, please remind me of this moment."

"Thank you for the suggestion, which is sure to prove helpful," said Ecthelion, "but... magnificent? I admit I got the result we wished for, or close to it, but I suspect I will come to regret my behaviour... Indeed, I am starting to regret it already."

"Of course you are." Glorfindel smiled. "But I promise you will forget your regret as soon as we get home. Or even sooner. Here, follow me."

He took Ecthelion by the elbow, and pulled him down an empty corridor. Ecthelion did not try to shake off his hand. The relative privacy, combined with the slight anger he felt over Turgon's decision-an order to keep lying by omission-made him feel reckless. He decided to speak of private matters.

"Turgon does not agree with your crippled Orc theory, I noticed," he said. "He expects us to begin normal, married lives someday."

"Turgon is wrong." Glorfindel stopped, and turned to face Ecthelion. "I know you are suspicious of me-so annoyingly suspicious that I have considered giving you a certificate proclaiming my lack of interest in all the women of Gondolin, renewed periodically as new ones come of age. But you have to understand that I am different from you."

"Different, how?" asked Ecthelion. "I thought you... I thought we wanted the same thing?"

"We want complementary things from each other, of course. However, a part of you still longs for a conventional life, or at least thinks such a life would be best: why else would you keep assuming that I would leap at any chance to have one? But your assumptions are entirely unjustified. I have never sought to be normal, believe me." He looked at Ecthelion intently, his gaze open, inviting trust. "I remember sitting under the table in my grandfather's kitchen as he cooked, and hearing him say that those who do not marry early have strange fates. And that sounded so exciting to me, and so glorious, that I knew at once that it was what I wanted. It is what I have found with you."

"A strange fate?"

"More the excitement, and the glory. Both of which I have just experienced." Glorfindel reached up to caress Ecthelion's upper arm. "I do not find much strangeness in this, do you? No, even you have admitted that it feels natural, even if it could be called abnormal. Not completely unusual, though: remember that soldier of the Harp? Anyway, I plan to make it seem more common."

"How could you possibly accomplish that?"

"Well, you know my Vanyarin scroll?" Glorfindel's fingers slid higher. "I am drawing something very similar, only involving two men."

"I know." Ecthelion ignored the hand now creeping up his neck. "You have been doing it for years."

"Not like this: I am trying to reproduce that distinctive Vanyarin style. When I succeed, I am going to bury the scroll in my roof garden for a few weeks, to age it. And then, finally, I will sneak it into the Healers' Library. Now," he said with a smug smile,  
"is my plan not an excellent one?"

"No," said Ecthelion, ducking away from his touch, "it most certainly is not. Why would you want to show everyone the worst aspects of an involvement like ours: its depravities."

"As I said, I want to help them get used to the idea. But I am less concerned with easily offended people than with those who have stumbled into a fate like ours. I want to make them feel less alone."

"I see." Ecthelion could still remember that sense of loneliness. He rubbed his neck, which suddenly felt cold. "Oh, I cannot think about this now; speaking with our ruling family has ruined my judgment. For now, let us go home. And yes, I do realize that you were pulling me towards a linen closet, but under the circumstances, I do not think we should risk it."

"It was a broom closet... But yes, I suppose you are right. I do not even know the Palace cleaners' schedules." He looked dejected for a moment, then brightened. "Very well. Let us go to your house."

"Mine? Just yesterday, you pointed out that yours is closer."

"Well, yes, but..." Glorfindel glanced away. "I want to get far away from this place. Besides, we can visit Salgant's office on the way, just to tell him that Turgon knows all, and has forbidden people to talk about any of it."

"That would be safest, yes." Ecthelion almost pitied Salgant: his dastardly schemes seemed as poorly timed as most of his grace notes. "Come on, then."

-

They walked across the city, discussing the official excuse for their meeting: the Games report they were to write. Ecthelion found the pretense harder than usual. While only days had passed since they had last met in privacy and safety, those days had been so eventful it felt like years. He was glad when they reached his house without incident.

"You know," said Glorfindel as they stepped in. "I feel like celebrating. How about opening some wine? Perhaps a good Nevrast vintage? I believe you have some in the cellar. I will, er, get things ready upstairs." His expression was as shifty as his words: Ecthelion suspected some pleasant surprise. However, when he finally climbed the stairs to his room, cradling two hastily picked, cold bottles to his chest, he saw no evidence of preparation. Glorfindel sat on his bed, true, but he was dressed just as fully as before, and had not even fetched any useful supplies. He smiled when he saw Ecthelion, still a bit unnaturally.

"Here, give me the bottle," he said, brandishing his dagger, "and let me break the seal."

But Ecthelion was sick of delays. "Later," he said. "First, we must settle this alleged letting-me-win-at-sparring business." He placed the wine on the table, and sat down beside Glorfindel just as he had done in the waiting room, ignoring the unexpected way the bed creaked under their combined weight.

"Fine, then," said Glorfindel, sliding closer. "But how do we settle it? With a rematch of our interrupted contest? But wait, we should get rid of our knives first, for safety." He let his fall to the ground, and then reached for Ecthelion's belt, or at least the area below it, with the confidence of one used to handling such weapons.

Ecthelion had been expecting something like this, so he kept his wits well enough to hold his ground when Glorfindel shoved him. Unfortunately, the bed emitted another distressed creak, distracting him; and the next shove landed him on his back, looking up at Glorfindel's self-satisfied expression-but only for a moment. The next creak was more of a crack, and then suddenly the mattress he lay on was no longer horizontal, but tilted upwards towards his feet, while Glorfindel looked not self-satisfied, but pained.

"Ow," he said. "Trust a headboard to hit people on the head."

Ecthelion left him to his atrocious punning, and knelt on beside the bed to inspect the damage. There was surprisingly little: the violent headboard had separated itself from the rest of the frame with a minimum of splintering.

"Strange," he said. "It looks as if the bolts holding this bed together were loose."

"Why is that strange? Your bed is old, and poorly built," said Glorfindel with as much smugness as can be mustered by a man half-trapped under a headboard, "To tell you the truth, I expected something like this to happen."

"Did you? I suppose I should have expected it, as well," said Ecthelion darkly. "But if you want to know why I find it strange, it is because the bolts were in quite firmly when I last looked."

"Well, that must have been a while ago, surely?"

"It was last night."

"Ah. Well, perhaps someone loosened them while you were out this morning. I suspect Sal--"

"I am tired of suspecting people, and, anyway, it is not a grave matter. I am sure the bed can be saved."

"What?" Glorfindel finally levered the headboard off himself and joined Ecthelion on the floor. "Oh. I see. Right. An hour's work, I would say," he said glumly. "I expect that you will insist on fixing it now?"

"Well, your knife does look like the perfect tool for the job." Ecthelion smiled at Glorfindel's stricken expression. "But no, absolutely not. Only an idiot would waste our time together playing with my furniture."

"Yes, I think you are right about that," said Glorfindel unsmugly. "So, what shall we do? Pull off the mattress, or--"

"Well," Ecthelion told him, "there is always the pull-up bar. What did your scroll call it...'Climbing Telperion'?"

---

-

---

Author's notes:  
0. As usual, feedback is encouraged, especially clever, critical feedback. And thanks to: Eveiya, Maggie, Lenine, Claudio, and Dagmar for all the comments!  
1. Speaking of Lenine, this chapter is dedicated to her, as a late birthday present. Happy Birthday!


End file.
